


3 times James and Henry lived happily ever after, and 1 time they did not

by isamariposa



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Happy Ending, M/M, Some Fitzier, Some Jopson/Crozier, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27867530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: 1: The Northwest Passage is discovered2: Crozier dies during his withdrawal3: Ten years after the rescue, James and Henry have teaAnd 1:Henry makes a deal with Crozier to keep James, and finds Jopson instead.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, Thomas Jopson/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Comments: 42
Kudos: 28





	1. The Glorious Discovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfermann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfermann/gifts).



> Happy birthday my dear, dear friend!!! Sorry it isn't finished yet, but I will do my best to upload the rest asap!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU: The Northwest Passage is discovered.

* * *

Henry maneuvered the two flutes of champagne in the crowded room with the ease of one who's had to stand upright through many storms at sea. It was trivial enough to locate James: as usual, a small crowd had gathered around him, men and women alike, and he was gesturing excitedly - undoubtedly telling them all about the Glorious Discovery, as he liked to call it. Henry had to elbow his way through the enraptured audience, and he was a little miffed to find a young woman pressed far too close to James, who had offered her his arm. But when James's gaze met his, his face lit up with delight.

"And there he is!" he cried, and beckoned Henry closer with unmistakable affection. "Le Vesconte himself. Thank you, my dear fellow," he added as he took the glass from him, and let go of the lady's arm, to Henry's great satisfaction. "Your timing is excellent, I was just telling everyone about your invaluable contribution to the Discovery."

"Oh," Henry said, and shrugged, though he certainly did bask in the attention. "I would hardly call it invaluable, come now."

"It absolutely was," James insisted, and turned to his audience again after a healthy sip. "So as I was saying, there is barely any light out, and we are in great peril of becoming trapped in the ice any day now. Henry and I have been standing outside for about two hours, trying to spot a clear route to sail without hitting any stray chunks of ice - icebergs, you may have heard the term?" He paused to some nods and murmurs rose from the crowd. "I've had quite enough of this, and I'm about to call the watch off, but Henry grabs me by the arm. Now you must understand: Henry is hardly gentle when he is engrossed in work. So he yanks me by the arm, really, and says 'Iceberg starboard, 30 degrees,' and shoves, just shoves the spying glass into my frozen hands. I do believe I was annoyed at the time."

"Quite so," Henry interrupts, as James marks a pause to breathe. "You insisted there was nothing."

"But I did humour him, in my defense. As you know, he was my second aboard the old Clio, back in India, and oh, that is a tale I must tell you next, you would not believe the wonders we saw together on that long voyage through the Far-East. So I do trust the fellow when he offers navigational advice, and I raise the spying glass in that direction. There is indeed an iceberg, quite a distance from us still, but unmistakably there. So I look more closely and then glance down at my map. You see, the map indicated that there ought to be a clear passage west. Instead, I could only see ice. But a little to the north, and behind Henry's providential iceberg, I could only see open sea. 'Mister Reid!' I shout, Mister Reid was our ice-master, 'Mister Reid!', and at once I give orders to climb up the rigging to have a clearer view. Now of course, you can imagine what an ordeal that was, with the biting wind and no gloves to be had for fear of losing footing. But glory, it seems, only comes after an arduous path. Once up there, I blow on my hands numb with the cold, and it was plain to see: the Northwest Passage, at long last, waiting to be discovered. I was reminded of Odysseus when he at last found himself in Ithaca after seeking it for so long. As Athena's great mist lifted, so did the ice lift, and lo, our efforts were handsomely rewarded by the Fates."

"Hear, hear!" Henry said, raising a toast, and the small crowd cheered in asquience.

A handsome blush coloured James's cheeks as he lifted his own glass.

"No wonder you were so promptly knighted upon your return, Sir James," said the obnoxious young lady next to him.

"Perhaps so," James said, too engrossed in his own success to notice her flirtation. "But you see," he added, tilting his glass in Henry's direction, "Le Vesconte was quite instrumental in this enterprise. I say he should have been knighted as well, and I did insist most pressingly. Alas, to no avail."

"The world is not prepared for both of us being knights at the same time, I'm afraid," Henry said lightly.

"I think it isn't," James agreed. "I shall have to marry you, so that you may at least be Lady Henry."

Bemused silence met this extravagant non sequitur. Henry glanced at James with veritable alarm. This was too audacious, even for Sir James, Britain's darling, acclaimed hero of the Northwest passage. The young woman looked positively shocked. The men did not seem to know whether to laugh or to ignore the remark. Goddamned James. 

"As charming as you are, Sir James," Henry said, with as much nonchalance as he could manage, and let out a harmless little laugh, "I think I must refuse you. I've heard sailors make terrible husbands."

Something in his gaze seemingly made James come to his senses. 

"That is a lie!" he cried, and turned to the poor thing next to him. "Do not listen to a word he says, Miss Spencer. We sailors make fine husbands. Their wives are free of their nagging presence for a large part of the year, I'm told."

An older man took his cue, thankfully, and the discussion segued into safer topics concerning the fairer sex. A little flustered by then, Henry waited some moments for the shock to subside, and made a graceful retreat from James's enraptured audience. He located the nearest waiter to rid himself of his empty glass and reached for a new one, the sparkling liquor calming him at once. He shook his head. If he had any intact hairs on his head, James would be sure to turn them grey as well.

A glance around the reception room for a distraction had him unfortunately meeting Des Voeux's gaze from across the room. Oh, he did not want to chat with him. The lad was a fine fellow, but after so many months cooped up together at sea Henry preferred another kind of company. Funny how that worked: he never did get tired of James. There was, however, no escape possible. The only other person who might be available for conversation was Crozier, who was drinking abominably with a sour look on his face, as was his wont. He had not cheered up once during the voyage, not even when they discovered the Passage. Sometimes Henry wondered whether Crozier had wanted to find it at all, or if he would have thrived under the misery he pontificated in the earlier days of the expedition. 

But it was neither Des Voeux or Crozier who provided suitable entertainment for Henry: James appeared at his side out of nowhere, and rested an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

"You've abandoned me, I see," he said playfully.

"I was leaving you to your adoring admirers," Henry said, with a glance toward the group who had dispersed by then. "Did you scare them away?"

"They will return, and others will join them."

"That is my curse, yes, to share you with everyone in the room wherever we go."

James glanced around as if assessing to whom he could speak next, and yet he said, his eyes not on Henry, "You have me all to yourself the rest of the time."

"Hmm. But that was too risky, even for you," Henry said, trying his best to sound scolding, but he was unable to stop his smile from widening as James leaned closer to him, intoxicatingly close, and met his gaze.

"Was it? I meant every word of it. You should have been made a knight as well."

"A knight, perhaps, but not your lady," Henry said, and James laughed. "But there is yet time."

"There is! We will sail again soon, you and I, and I will make it my quest that you are properly credited for our next discovery."

"Where to?" Henry humoured, though he was more interested in their immediate destination of the night rather than in sailing. He had a little flat down by Paddington, where many a night had been well spent. He folded his arms across his chest to stop the urge to touch James as well.

"Does it matter?"

"No. No, I suppose not, as long as we are together."

"Aha!" James said, and laughed again. "There. The lady does say _I do._ "

Henry glanced around to make sure Des Voeux had given up on coming any closer, or that no one was close enough to hear them. Then he smirked, and said, "Give me but an hour of your time, Sir James, and I will show you who the lady is between the two."

"I will give you all night," James said with a wink, and fluttered off to find himself another unsuspecting crowd to suffer his glory.


	2. As Thin as Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crozier dies during his withdrawal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the summary. Crozier dies. Henry was not fond of him.
> 
> I have used "Esquimaux" to refer to the Inuit as two young Brits might have called them in the 1840s, no disrespect intended.
> 
> Thank you so much Acephalous and kriegskrieg for encouragement, plot unfucking, and geography lessons!

* * *

Henry guessed it before Little had a chance to speak. Unsteady on his feet, he staggered onto the deck of the Erebus after climbing up on the icy steps. His hands were trembling. When Henry lifted the lantern, he found Little's eyes full of tears, and a slight frost covering his cheeks where he must have cried. 

"Edward," he said, patting his shoulder, though the heavy mittens prevented him from offering much comfort. "What happened?"

"The Captain," Little said, his voice wavering. "The Captain is dead."

Christ. 

Henry had, in passing, worried whether the poor old drunkard would drink himself to death well before the end of winter, but he never considered that an attempt to sober up would do him in. His already untenable esteem for Crozier had plummeted dramatically after finding out he'd punched James. Not so long ago, Henry might have marched up to Terror and told him a bit of his mind, shown him that Henry had as good an uppercut as any - when he was younger, more foolish, more territorial. Still. He had not wished him dead. What then? They were in just as much of a pickle, with a vicious creature on the prowl and no signs of winter abating - and minus one Captain. Not that Crozier had been much of a Captain in the past six months. In any case, standing there in the brutal cold, staring at each other in the faint light of the lantern, would do them no favours.

"Hurry in," he told Little. "Fitzjames is in the great cabin."

He walked behind him, removing layers as he made his way down and handing them to Bridgens who appeared out of nowhere to assist him. Inside the cabin, James was sitting down, staring at a map with something of a scowl.

Henry knocked on the open door and said, "Lieutenant Little is here to see you, sir."

James glanced up with a start and nodded as Little stepped into the room. Henry was not asked to stay, but he did nevertheless: closing the door behind themselves and making himself unobtrusive.

"The Captain is dead, sir," Little repeated, his hair dampened by the frost giving his wavering tone more pathos. "He d-died just under an hour ago."

The heavy words hung in the frigid air of the great cabin and lingered there, poisonous, ominous. Henry glanced at James with vague dread, but the grand reaction he half-expected failed to occur: he looked surprised, disturbed perhaps, but not devastated with the violent grief he displayed after Sir John's demise. Perhaps it would come later.

"How?" James asked after a long moment. He had to clear his throat.

"He was having fits today, nearly every hour," Little said, and made a despondent gesture. "Doctor MacDonald and Jopson tried to stop them, but the last one was too violent. He died in their arms, sir. They couldn't revive him. I came to tell you immediately."

"Well done," James said, mechanically, as if Little were but a young seaman looking for his approval. It was an easy mistake to make, in any case, from the way Little was gazing at him, lost, visibly starving for comfort where there was none to be had.

James glanced at Henry then. Oh, the fear was too raw there. It made him flinch. He'd seen James face innumerable perils without as much as blinking, but this trepidation in his gaze seemed utterly foreign. Henry clenched his jaw and gave a brief nod, hoping it would be enough to reassure him. James glanced away.

"These are dire news, Little," he said. "This unfortunate death leaves us, you and I, in charge of this expedition."

"Yes," Little said as he visibly attempted to master his nerves. "I know."

James sat back, evidently trying to give Little a moment to recover, but the way he rubbed his face, slow and tired, made it clear he needed it as well. How much of it was grief, regret, or dread of the position they've found themselves thrown into, Henry did not know. James was not fond of Crozier, or least, not the way normal people would be fond of someone. He delighted in making him rage, in mocking him - in other words, he craved for his attention. Henry had known him long enough to know what that meant, and he hated it. 

A measure of resignation seemed to cross James's face before he spoke again. "Well," he told Little. "We must have a proper burial as soon as possible."

A burial. Another burial, less than half a year from Sir John's. Perhaps the next one would be for James, Captain after Captain after Captain, following the chain of command in grisly succession. Henry blinked the thought away.

"Gather the Terrors and bring all them here," James added. "I'll not have you wasting more coal to heat up a ship for less than two dozen men. Erebus is already as tight as can be, but we shall have to make room for you all."

That did not seem to agree with Little. No doubt he had expected to retain command of the other ship. He opened his mouth, as if on the verge of arguing, but in the end he said, somewhat sullenly, "Yes, sir."

"Dundy, see that Lieutenant Little has everything he needs for their move," James told him, including him in the conversation. Little turned around with visible surprise, as if he hadn't noticed Henry was there. "Make a plan to transport whatever we can use from Terror with as little delay as possible. It may have to wait until the weather improves, but it needs to happen soon."

"Of course, sir," Henry said.

"Hurry back, Little. Take one of the sergeants with you to walk you back to the ship. We cannot afford to lose _you_."

Little looked more horrified than comforted at these words, and he squirrelled out of the great cabin. Henry considered following him, but James had not dismissed him. When the door shut, he walked closer to him, but in slow, measured steps - to let him know he was there, to let him know he had not left.

"I did not think he would die," James said after a moment. "I hoped he would not."

Henry sat across from him from the table in silence. What to say? What comfort could he expect to give? Just how sorry was James, did he regret his antagonistic chatter, did he wish he could undo it? Maybe Henry was the odd one out. He ought to be feeling something more charitable, more Christian. Sorry for the old bugger, maybe, who had died an unhappy man - and not this urge to spring to action, this desperation to stop James from thinking.

"It's just like him, isn't it?" James added, his tone bitter. He was staring at a blank spot somewhere on the cabin wall. "To go ahead and die, and leave it to me to prove my worth, or lack thereof, to the world. He got the last laugh."

"James," Henry said, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. "I don't think Crozier gave a rat's arse whether you proved your worth or not."

"He hated my guts," James insisted.

"Precisely. As did you." James did not correct this. Henry added, "You do not need to prove your worth to anyone on this ship. Certainly not to me."

"Don't I?" James said, now sounding irritated. "Don't I? Is that not the reason I came?"

"Never mind why you came, not anymore. Right now, it matters that you lead us out of here alive."

"I don't know that I can."

His tone had the impatience of a quarrel brewing. Henry pursed his lips in anticipation. He would weather it, if James's grief disguised itself as anger. 

"I'm sorry," he said, tiredly, trying to keep the peace. "I know what he was to you."

"Do you really?" James said, and met his gaze. There was a sharpness there that startled Henry, but he bore it without blinking.

"I think I can guess," he said. 

"You are guessing wrong."

James crossed his arms and glanced away. Perhaps it was best to let him be, though it did feel like deserting him in his hour of need. Henry rose, nevertheless, and when James did not react he made his way to the door.

"Henry," James called. He sounded anguished. "Stay."

So Henry stayed, though he did not sit again. He rested a hand on the table, very close to James and yet not touching him. But James leaned against him for a brief moment, just enough to awaken a nice, comforting warmth on his arm.

"I don't know that there's a way out of here," James said after a long silence. He was staring at the map again. "I do not think the men are in any shape to walk so many miles."

A sizable amount of them were weakened, exhausted, or half-mad. But Henry welcomed this segue far from the previous subject, and threw himself into it head first.

"Not all of them," he admitted. 

"That was Crozier's plan, nevertheless. To walk southwards, and meet the succour Fairholme's party is to bring."

"I thought that was _the_ plan, rather than Crozier's plan."

James said nothing. A shadow passed over his face, giving him a broody expression that Henry did not like one bit. What would the alternative be? If they were to stay there, November was the point of no return, as was discussed in their last meeting - unless they found some game to hunt. 

"We cannot stay," he said.

"Can't we? Might we not try?"

"To die here in comfort, rather than attempting to save ourselves? That does not sound like you."

"I haven't been myself for a long time now," James said, and covered his eyes with both hands. At first glance, it looked like he was crying, or trying not to cry. Perhaps he was. Henry rested a hand on his shoulder, and loved the way James arched against him. When he uncovered his eyes, he seemed far more resolute. "What of the Esquimaux woman?" he said. "What does she eat? How does she survive the winter? There must be game around here."

"There must be. But there is also the beast."

"We killed it," James said stubbornly. "It will not return. But with Crozier... gone, we've lost one of the few men who could translate the girl's language. Only Blanky remains now, and he has lost his leg."

"Try Goodsir," Henry said, uncomfortably reminded of the night he lost his toes. "He's learned to speak with her."

"I might," James said. "I might just go to her ice-house and converse with her. I may not speak in her tongue, but I am certainly more charming than Crozier ever managed to be."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if remembering where he'd been struck, but Henry only saw red. By God, he would not lose him to some obscure beast thirsting for blood. He would not.

"You will do no such thing," he said, and grabbed James by the arm, perhaps too forcefully. "You are not to leave this ship if I can help it. We have lost two Captains, but I will not lose you."

No Lieutenant would ever dare address his Captain like this, but Henry was more. Wasn't he? It had been years since he'd asked himself that question. He simply _was,_ as long as James wanted him by his side. And James held his gaze with utter seriousness, enduring this outburst - acknowledging he had not overstepped, that he was allowed this liberty. 

"Very well," James said. "But we must learn from her whether there is a way out of here, creature or not."

Henry let go of him, still a little shaken. "I will send some men to fetch her when we are more settled. In the meantime, I will get Des Voeux and see about placing the remaining Terrors aboard."

"Yes. Do." James frowned. "Will they fit, you think?"

"It will be tight. Are we placing every officer in their own cabin? We might be short of one if so. Unless Hodgson boards with Des Voeux, they are on good terms as far as I know. Or perhaps the physicians might be inclined to room together."

"They will not. And I would rather have _them_ be comfortable."

"You could always board with Little in the great cabin," Henry said, more teasing than serious.

James scoffed. "Heavens, no. If anyone is sleeping here with me, I'd rather it be you."

The expression on James's face was rather light-hearted, a marked contrast with his previous somberness.

"That might raise a few eyebrows," Henry said, cautious. "Little is your second, not I."

"We both know that will not be true in practice," James said. 

His smile did not reach his eyes, and he sounded exhausted, but the playful glimmer in his eyes seemed genuine. Henry relented.

"I would like that," he said. "But let me first see whether I can fit everyone."

* * *

Many hours later, when he returned to the great cabin to tell James all was arranged, he found that Bridgens had already placed a cot for him close to the stove, and in the Captain's bedcabin - James, stripped to his undergarments under the covers, and starving to be held.

How was it that earthly pleasures always had the particularity to make one forget even the direst situations? A fine meal, a hearty drink, a good romp - Arctic or not, nothing seemed to matter in that singular moment. And it had been a while, a long while, since they'd lain together like this. With Sir John about, they had to be as quiet as possible, and then... And then James had been otherwise engaged, his gaze too fixated on Terror to humour Henry's advances as often as he'd wanted. But there was a desperate edge to his hands when he grabbed a fistful of Henry's shirt and pulled him onto the Captain's berth, echoed in his whispered pleas to be taken hard and fast while the crowded ship slept around them. Henry buggered him slowly instead, pacing himself, drawing this rare treat for as long as they could, and not stopping until he felt James shuddering with pleasure under him - with pleasure, and also with relief.

 _I hope that helped,_ Henry thought as he tried to find the most comfortable position to lie together on the narrow berth. James, his breath uneven, had his eyes still closed, and while he did not smile, his face had a contented softness around the hard lines of his jaw. _I hope it meant something._ Henry stroked him distractedly, enjoying the quiet, but his fingers found something slick and sticky when he only expected hair.

"You're bleeding," he said, and sat on the bed with alarm. Was that his doing? He had not pulled on his hair during the lovemaking, not this time.

"Let it be." James jerked his head away from him. "It will go away on its own, I expect."

Henry fought the urge to rush and get Doctor Stanley, or MacDonald, or even Goodsir - anyone to talk some sense into James. He was no physician, but this did not seem like the kind of injury that would 'go away on its own'. Why had this happened? James was no less healthy a man than any of them. He had more toes than Henry, in any case. Fear twisted his stomach again. James was in no condition to walk. Perhaps in no condition to stay, either.

"Christ," he said, and lied back down on the bed.

"Henry. It's fine," James said, sounding annoyed.

"Like hell it is," he said. "Walking south for hundreds of miles is out of the question for you."

"I've done far worse in the past. I must lead the men."

"You'll do a fine job at it if you bleed out on the way and leave Little in command."

"Must you spoil my mood just now?" James said. "I was basking in the nice little afterglow."

"Your little afterglow comes with the nagging, I'm afraid."

James sighed. He tried to turn away, but the narrow berth prevented him to. They had to lie face to face, unless they wanted to part with the blanket, and it was too cold for that. 

"I must stay, _maybe,_ " he said, "but not the others. I will not condemn them to a certain death by inaction. I certainly do not fancy such an end myself."

"Don't speak of endings," Henry said. "We have not reached ours, not yet." Not _ever._ "We will think of something tomorrow. With a clearer head."

"My head is clear," James said. "It has been very clear for weeks. This was a mistake, was it not, Henry? Crozier was right: we'll not discover a thing. I wish we'd never come."

Henry touched James's hair where it had no blood. "We will get through this," he said, though he did not know if he believed it. It did not look like James believed it either, but he nuzzled against him, and closed his eyes.

* * *

  
  


Henry awakened in the dark, just as a bell finished ringing - not giving him enough time to count and know what time it was. The surroundings confused him for a moment, before he remembered: Crozier, the Terrors crowding the ship, James's scalp bleeding under his fingers, and the terrible dread that whatever they did might not just be enough to live. 

James was no longer in bed. Henry dragged himself out of the bedcabin, his back aching on account of having spent the night contorted in such a small space. They were no longer twenty, he supposed, young and stupid and warm as they commanded a much easier expedition. He found James seated by the table, still in his underclothes and wrapped in a thick blanket, staring down at the map again with a vacant expression. 

"Did you sleep at all?" Henry asked, in lieu of a greeting.

James glanced up at him slowly, sleepily it seemed. "More than most nights," he said.

Henry attended to his own earthly needs by the seat of ease, vaguely aware of James's gaze following his gestures, but not bothered by it. He reached for the water bassinet after buttoning up, but found it freezing under his fingers. 

"What, no warm water?" he grumbled. 

"We have an overabundance of stewards aboard now. I am a little afraid of ringing the bell and having all of them come forth at the same time."

A shadow of a smile on James's lips, at least. But he was not wrong: Hoar and Bridgens, but also Jopson, and Gibson. They should have arranged this before bedtime. 

"I will find Bridgens," Henry said, and shouldered on his uniform coat with a sigh.

He made it nowhere near the door before James spoke again.

"Do you really think he hated me?" he asked, and Henry froze.

He did not need to ask who _he_ was. Was this what had kept James awake, despite his amorous zeal some hours before? The ugly feeling that twisted his stomach was jealousy, though they had never indulged in possessiveness in their long acquaintance. What was it about this accursed journey that made Henry want James all to himself, all of a sudden? He had to clear his throat before answering.

"I don't know," he said, lacking the courage to turn around and have this conversation face to face. "But I do not think he understood you."

"Oh, I think he understood me very well," James said. "He knew what I was. He knew I was a fraud."

Henry did turn this time to face him, with the unpleasant sensation of having the ship sinking under his feet. James's face was carefully neutral, but a hint of a challenge remained in his gaze, as if he were looking for a fight, though perhaps not with Henry. 

"Fraud or not," he said, and James flinched, "whoever knows you and does not love you must be a raving lunatic."

He fled before James had a chance to say something in return. 

Outside, the ship was mostly silent. It must have been three bells when he woke. He basked in this relative calm, so unlike the suffocating tension of the great cabin. Henry did his best to become distracted by the very interesting smell coming from the cookstove. It was early enough that he might just get the first batch of bread of the day - lured by this promise, he walked over to that area for a treat he decided he'd earned by now.

By the stove, however, he found Thomas Jopson with Neptune's head on his lap, also wrapped in a blanket, staring at nothing in particular and seemingly unaware of the smell of fresh bread the Cook was baking right by him. Poor lad. He must have been very attached to Crozier. As he begged the Cook for a small bite, Henry glanced at the steward more closely: Jopson had a ruddy complexion before, but his cheeks were pale, sickly, making his sunken eyes appear larger. Henry had seen men looking like this before. They did not live long.

"Mister Jopson," he called, after managing to snag a bread roll.

Jopson seemed to wake from a dream. "Sir?" he said, and tried to stand, but Neptune whimpered in protest. 

Henry bent down to pet the dog's head, preventing the steward's movement. "Up so early? Have you had your breakfast yet?"

Jopson looked bewildered, as if Henry had asked an extravagant question, but he mastered himself and answered, "No, sir."

"Well, I'll have you know Cook here makes a very fine bread. He's likely offended to have you sitting there and not asking for a roll."

"That's right, sir," the Cook said. He looked relieved. No doubt he had also remarked Jopson's despondent mood and did not know how to address it.

"Oh," Jopson said, looking at the Cook as if he just noticed him there. "My apologies."

"Have a roll, lad, and all'll be forgiven."

Jopson took the bread and turned it in his hands like a foreign object, making no move to eat it. The blank look on his face did not change. Henry stopped petting the dog, then, and put his hand on Jopson's shoulder. 

"It's all very painful still, isn't it?" he told him, as gently as possible, and wondered why it was infinitely easier to say to Jopson what he could not (would not) say to James. "It's always hard to watch a man die."

"It was a nightmare," Jopson said, still absent. "My worst nightmare come true."

"You did all that you could, I'm certain. It was no fault of yours."

"I was supposed to look after him," Jopson said, and his voice finally regained some heat. "I looked after him for nine years! He was not supposed to die."

Henry felt an unexpected knot in his throat with these words. _Just like me,_ he thought, and wondered if he might not become ill. He was supposed to look after James. He still would, whatever it took. He would have him examined, he would chain him to the cabin if needed be.

"Get some sleep, Jopson. I think you've earned it," he said, sounding comforting when he was still agitated himself. "And take heart: nightmares last only until the morning, though they may not seem so at night."

* * *

  
  


"I'm afraid that's all she told me, sir," Goodsir said, shaking his head. "She does not like speaking of the creature."

James crossed his hands under his chin, lost in thought. Little, next to him, seemed quite surpassed by the circumstances. Henry finished scribbling Goodsir's report into his notebook. The conversation with Lady Silence had not been much help at all, not to them at least.

"Do you believe what the men say," James asked, "that she controls the creature?"

"No, sir," said Goodsir, his voice hardening with the agitation. "I rather think the creature is linked to her. She says she is his companion. Or would have been, had we not killed her father."

"I wish we had not killed him." James sighed. "But can it be harnessed? Appeased? Fed? What does it want?"

"It wants us gone, sir. Gone, or dead."

"We want the same, then. I would love for us to be gone, but _it_ will not let us. Look, can we strike a bargain? A cease-fire while we vacate the premises? I'm even willing to offer my apologies for wounding it with a rocket."

"Strike a bargain with a spirit, sir?" Goodsir said, just as flippant as James.

"And why not? We are at our wits end here." The tension of commanding made him cockier, in the past. It still did. He leaned closer to Goodsir, a conspiratorial smirk on his face. "Ask her. She is fond of you, is she not? If they are linked, perhaps the creature would be willing to humour you as well."

"Sir," Goodsir protested, his cheeks turning ruddier. Henry winced in sympathy, but James trudged on, sounding far too amused.

"How well have you conducted your courtship? Would she follow you, if you asked her to? Would she lead you to safety, to her tribe, or to a whaling route?"

"Sir, that is not... she is not... I would not presume," Goodsir protested, but fell silent in catastrophe.

"Try." James nodded emphatically. "A party of ten, ten of our strongest, led by you and her and the creature, come the first sunrise."

"Ten?" Henry interjected, stopping his scribbling, as if that were the least outlandish part of James's plan.

"Too few? Twenty, then." He tapped his fingers on the map. "Captain Crozier intended us to walk south to Great Fish River and then to Fort Resolution." His finger made a wide berth on the map, an impossibly vast gesture that made Little blanch. "Perhaps her people know where we are more likely to find whalers. Or would be willing to send a message along with a smaller party." He pointed to Hudson Bay, then, a much shorter, but far more uncertain trek to the East. "We have not much to spare in our stores, but perhaps they would be interested in hunting tools in exchange for help? Firearms?"

"Firearms!" Henry interjected again, decidedly against this notion.

"We may discuss the finer details later, Le Vesconte," James told him, silencing him with a glare.

"Why not go North, sir?" Little asked, speaking at last. "There may still be stores in Fury Beach. And whalers, certainly."

"Perhaps so," James agreed, "I always did want to find the Fury and sail her back home." He turned to Goodsir again. "Ask her what she thinks is best."

"Sir, you are placing far too much faith in me," poor Goodsir said. "I have been given no hope, no hints, I hold no sway over her."

"Oh, come now," James said with a shrug, blissfully unaware that charm did not come to others as naturally as it did to him. "Just do your best. Kiss her a bit, that always seems to help."

"Do _not_ kiss her," Henry interrupted again. "That will not end well."

"There! Have Dundy school you. He is an admirable seducer when he puts his mind to it," James said, and winked. "Some _ladies_ went wild for him in the Far-East."

It was Henry's turn to blush red. Here they were, stranded in the Arctic, and instead of a grave meeting to decide their fate, James was conducting his court with the levity of a tea-room inclined to gossip. Perhaps there was some method to his false cheer: for the briefest of moments, their survival depending on the success of Goodsir's suit made it all seem less dreary, less insurmountable. This flippant young man with an irresistible drive to fix it all resembled the thoughtful one in the privacy of the great cabin so little that Henry would have been surprised, had he not spent six long years watching his changing moods.

* * *

Instead of a Carnival for the first sunrise, they held a burial. So much for morale. Crozier's hearse was lowered into the frozen ice, and they all watched, in complete silence, as the Sun pierced the horizon for a fleeting moment, and then was swallowed by the vast darkness once again. And not far from them, in the white shadows of the land, the creature watched too, standing behind Lady Silence like a monstrous pet, a companion borne out of nightmares. _He's not as monstrous,_ Goodsir would have protested if he'd heard Henry's thoughts. _He's quite fascinating, really._

Physicians were half-insane, he was coming to believe. One morning, Henry had found Doctor Stanley in his cabin with his wrists slit to the bone. Dead. He'd enlisted Jopson's help to clean up the mess, knowing he could count on his discretion. To the men he said he'd died of natural causes. They did not need a bout of hysteria to spread like the plague. At least Doctor MacDonald appeared to be a sensible man, skilled enough to manage the lot of them in Goodsir's absence. He seemed to think James would recover from his bleeding if he ate fresh food. Of which they had little, but Lady Silence had shown Goodsir how to dig holes in the snow where it was the least thick (incidentally, that was where she had set up camp in the first place. How she knew that, when even Blanky did not, Henry still wondered) in the hopes of finding fish or seals. A tedious endeavour, but one they had to try.

"How are you holding up, Jopson?" Henry said, and placed a hand on the steward's shoulder.

Jopson flinched at the touch. He had spilled no tears that morning, watching the ceremony with deceptive stoicism.

"Wishing I was dead myself, sir," he said, absently.

He was considered for Goodsir's expedition on account of his good health, but Henry opposed this. Jopson was nowhere sound of mind after what he'd been through.

"None of that," he told him, but removed his hand after James spared a glance in their direction. "Come see me in the mess after the men depart."

Eighteen strong men to join Goodsir and Lady Silence in their uncertain journey south-southwest to Hudson Bay, accompanied by the terrible beast pacified for the time being. The weather was just on the edge of impractical, but Goodsir sounded optimistic about it. Leave it to James to ideate an outlandish plan and see it to completion. In two months, a second party would set out, and two months later another. The lighter they traveled, the greater chance for survival, or so they hoped. Goodsir's group was to leave marks on the way for the other groups to follow. With that plan, all groups ought to arrive to safety well before the weather worsened, and those left behind... Henry did not want to think of that, not yet. Those left behind, if no help came and they were still hale, would head North to Fury Beach by Spring.

"Go forth," James told Goodsir's party as he bid them farewell. "Do it for our Captains, who are no longer with us. We are counting on you. You are the very best of this expedition. I know you will succeed."

They watched them walk southwards from the deck of the Erebus until they were but small wisps of fire far in the horizon. Small, but for the fearsome beast in their wake.

"I may have just sent nineteen good men to their deaths," James said under his breath. Fairholmes, Lady Silent told them, had not made it far the year before.

No one was close enough to hear him but Henry. He placed a hand on James's arm, in a not so discreet manner.

 _"Alea jacta est,"_ he told him, soberly. "What else could we do?"

James glanced at him, his gaze tired under his cocked hat. Christ, how he managed to look so handsome through the hardship, Henry had no clue.

"I hope she's better at controlling her wild pet than we ever were," James quipped, halfheartedly.

"That is an appallingly low bar to clear, I'm afraid."

A small chuckle, that they shared in secret. 

"Harry," he said, growing more serious. "I lied to you." Henry turned towards him, alarmed. But James looked sheepish, perhaps embarrassed, as he added, "He _was_ something. I wanted him to be something to me. I wish he had not died, and that he were here to see me today."

It was not exactly a surprise, but it still stung to hear it out loud. Henry averted his gaze. 

"If it helps, I never believed your denial," he said, staring at the emptiness around them with stubborn zeal. "And perhaps he does see you now, wherever he is."

Then James grabbed him by the fur lapels of his uniform, far too dangerous a gesture with so many onlookers about (who? Henry could only see Little and Irving in the corner of his eye, along with perhaps… Peglar? Des Voeux?). He let himself be pulled close, nevertheless, and he grabbed James's wrists with both hands, not quite trusting him to be sensible.

"Take me to bed," James said, "and make me forget."

* * *

  
  


Food, food, an abundance of food and no one to eat it. Or no one with the heart to eat it, not even Henry. For all that Erebus had been crowded at one point, it was nearly emptied by June. The groups had left, little by little, alleviating the stress on the food stores, but making way for a terrible silence and a growing dread. Eating, it seemed, held little appeal when adrift in the middle of nothingness. The noose tightened around their necks, day after day. 

Four dozen men should have been far easier to manage than ten, but they were not a cheery lot. Most were weak, ill, or too tired for any great effort. James no longer bled, at least, but some unsightly bruises had appeared on his legs of late. He refused to let it show before the men, but he was tired, perpetually tired. Too tired for sex, even. Henry had never known him to be like this. 

And yet Erebus did have some manner of entertainment, owing to her Captain's natural disposition for merrymaking. Sir John's trunk, full of costumes, allowed for varied theatre plays and burlesque on Sundays - a use their rightful owner would have found appalling. James threw himself into his roles with anxious zeal, so intent he was on keeping morale high. Sometimes Henry wondered whether not doing anything might not have been more appropriate for their circumstances, but he invariably joined him, and gently nudged the other men to do so as well. In bed, however, he held James close, and worried.

* * *

  
  


"Henry," James said one morning, when they were lying together in the narrow berth. "You have to leave."

It was his turn, with Little's group gone for over two months. Henry was the last officer remaining, and he had been delaying it for weeks.

"No," he said. "I will not not leave you."

"You have to. Your men are still fit. Go now, before winter closes on us again."

"I will not leave you."

James touched his face, so very gently.

"I am ordering you to leave me. As your Captain." Yet his pleading tone had no commanding edge. He offered a sad, pitiful smile. "As your friend. As your lover, however inconsistent I have managed to be that over the years."

"I can't," Henry said, his throat too tight to answer lightly in turn. "Please don't ask this of me."

"I am asking you to save us. To save yourself. And to save _me_."

These stolen moments in bed were all that they had, all that Henry lived for. Good God, this could not be the end, not so soon, not like this. And yet it felt so inevitable that all he managed to be aroused with was quiet resignation. He pressed his mouth to James's dried lips, wishing everything had been different after Clio.

"I love you," James said, against his neck. 

Henry had longed to hear this. He'd longed to hear it for so long. And now that he'd heard it, it was too late for them. 

"And I you," he said. "And I will return to you, so help me God."

* * *

  
  


If the night wearied them during the winter, in the summer the light was relentless. Oppressive. Suffocating. The sun-glasses did little to shield Henry from the brightness. Once upon a time, brightness had been all that was right in the world, many years before, in memories that were starting to become smudged and ungraspable. A cat, they had a lovely cat as golden as the midday sun. He used to nap with his head on James's lap.

Henry had not realised how exhausted he had become aboard Erebus. Was he ill as well? Perhaps he had overestimated his own health. His own capacity to walk so many hours a day, when he'd lost most of the toes that would have supported his steps. And his own inability to stop thinking of James, hour after hour, revisiting minute details of that last morning together, of James's hands fixing his uniform for him with shocking tenderness, of the last gaze they'd shared as Henry started the march southwards. 

It was as excruciating as losing a limb - and Henry knew what that felt like.

He should have stayed. 

In China, with the war waging around them, he'd come to believe they would die together in one of James's mad dashes forward. That belief had been shaken to its core when Henry discovered vividly just how mortal James was, his life escaping between Henry's fingers tinged red with blood. He'd sworn to himself then that he would keep James alive, no matter the cost. He never imagined the cost would be to leave him behind, in the vain hope of finding help that might never come.

"Take heart, sir," Jopson told him as he lied next to him during a sleepless pause in the unnatural light, Jopson who had not left Crozier, Jopson who had stayed with him to the end. "We are reaching the end of the nightmare, one way or the other."

What a curious nightmare this was, one with no James, no cheetah, and full of sun.

* * *

  
  


And Jopson was, beautifully, right.

The first silhouettes appeared on the horizon one week after the start of the march. Henry did not recognise Goodsir at first. What had been a well-trimmed beard before had become a wild appendage, untamed but for the strands he had tried to tress. His manner of dress, too, had little of the man he was before, and he wielded a spear. Why, he nearly looked Esquimaux from afar, indistinguishable from his companions.

"It's good to see you, sir," he said, as he embraced Henry. "Help's on the way now. We found two whaling ships."

Henry heard the words but did not understand them. How? When? And who? He felt so very tired. He should not have left James.

"Sir? Are you all right? Sir!" he heard Goodsir say, and then he heard no more.

* * *

  
  


Henry awakened in a place all too familiar to him - the Captain's bedcabin on Erebus. For a brief, terrible moment he wondered whether it had all been a nightmare, whether he had never left, whether help had never come. But James was at his side at once, holding his hands between his - James, looking a little healthier, and with a lovely smile on his lips.

"About time you woke, old boy!" he told him. "You gave me quite a fright. Why did you not say you were ill?"

"Mnotill," Henry mumbled in protest.

"Jopson says you swooned in Goodsir's arms. You're quite fortunate I was not around to see it. I would never let you hear the end of it."

"Oh, do piss off."

James's cheer was infectious, it had always been. Even so, Henry barely dared to join him, not even when James lifted his left hand to his lips and placed a kiss there.

"Help is coming?" he croaked, wishing very badly for some water.

"Help is here," James corrected. "Just on the other side of the island. Do you know that they have sleds with dogs? They tie them all together like a pack of horses. Goodsir has become quite the Native of late. Who would have thought he had Don Giovanni in him, to make such a brilliant match? Anyhow, we will join the whaling ships in no time now that you're awake. Not a moment too late, I daresay. Our rope was stretching a bit thin, wasn't it?"

"Thin as ice," Henry quipped, and when James laughed it felt, very much, like falling in love all over again.

  
  



	3. Tea for two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years after the rescue, James and Henry rekindle their friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is just an excuse for fluff, sorry.

* * *

_1848-49_

The endless, disorienting journey back home made little sense when Henry tried to recall details. Fairholme's party had found help, but they never knew that until they met the soldiers coming to their rescue. By then the crew were exhausted and unruly, James was ill, and too many had been killed by that enraging beast. Henry slept for what seemed for months on a slow-moving ship, and whenever he woke there was just too much pain to stay conscious. He remained vaguely aware of James's presence nearby and went back to sleep, over and over. He did not remember much else. Henrietta and Albert were waiting at the docks in Portsmouth and took him home to Southampton, where more sleeping ensued. 

Days later, he awoke to ravenous hunger and tried a few timid steps out of bed - steps that hurt far more than it should have. The local physician told him his foot had sustained too much damage, with the cold, the amputation, and the brutal walk, to ever walk without a limp again. Hettie felt dreadfully sorry for him, so for her sake Henry pretended not to be devastated, but it did not bode well for his future in the Royal Navy, not if he still aspired to a post that required running or fighting. He slept little that night, mulling over his prospects, and when he finally started falling asleep with the first light of dawn, he wondered: Why had James not written? 

Did James live?

Hettie, bless her, had been saving everything the papers from London were saying about the Expedition, both before and after their return. Instead of sleeping, he spent some hours before breakfast combing the reports. James lived, that much was clear. He'd been ill as well, but was "stoutly recovering" and preparing for the imminent court martial with "tremendous zeal", or so said the papers. Henry recognised William Connington's prose in some of the vaguely hagiographic articles. So the question remained: why had James not written? He knew where Henry was staying. He must have known. He either was sicker than the papers let on or, as had happened during their brief quarrels in the past, he was simply not thinking of Henry. Either possibility pained him too much to consider. By the time Hettie and Albert joined him for breakfast, he'd made up his mind: he would go to London as soon as he felt well enough to travel. He was expected at the court martial, evidently, as a surviving officer of Erebus, but not if he was unfit to attend. He would be fit, Henry decided, and gobbled down two generous helpings to recover faster.

In London, however, he wished he had not.

James was not staying at Connington's, he discovered, and he had no luck locating his whereabouts until the day of the trial. Then, as he watched him get down from a hansom in an ill-fitting uniform (James had lost a lot of weight, they all had) with _Crozier_ , Henry understood. Oh, he understood it all. It was not exactly a surprise, he'd guessed it during the long expedition and the disconcertingly eternal journey on land, but seeing it with his own eyes was an insult he had not prepared for. Dumbstruck, Henry considered turning around and leaving straight to Southampton. Instead, he stood there in the vast hallway of the Admiralty, impervious, and managed not to wince when James walked up to him feigning surprise.

"Henry!" he said. "Good to see you here, old fellow."

"Likewise," Henry said, perhaps more curtly than he intended. There was an awkward pause, where neither of them extended a hand in greeting. Not far from them, Crozier was waiting, not too patiently. Spurred on by a sudden bitterness, he added, "You did not write."

"Neither did you," James said, as if he had any right to fight back.

"I did not know where you were staying." Henry glanced at Crozier. "But had I known, I might not have written."

James had the decency to look contrite for a brief second. But he clenched his jaw and said, in a rather condescending tone, "Steady now. This is hardly the place for a quarrel."

"I am not quarreling," Henry said, feeling rather reckless despite the little scene he was making, "but after seven years, I think I deserved a bloody letter. This is appalling, even coming from you."

He could not fail to see the humour in the situation: he'd always imagined James would be the one raising hell if they put an end to their long association, but here was Henry, arguing like a fool without a care of who might hear or see.

"Well," James said, deceptively cheerful where his gaze was stormy, "you shall not have to put up with my appalling self any longer."

"Jolly good riddance," Henry bit back. "I don't know why I bothered following you to the ends of the Earth. I wish you all the best in your future endeavours, sir."

Not one month later, he boarded a ship to Canada to join his parents and sisters, and did not look back.

* * *

_1851_

_I wish you all the best in your future endeavours, sir._

The words were arranged to convey a good wish, but in retrospect they rather sounded like a curse. James had dismissed them as the hotheadedness of a spurned lover, the kind featured in literary tragedies or at the theatre - he knew Henry was capable of excesses when jealous but he had, perhaps, miscalculated the depths of the other man's feelings. Two years later, he could not help wondering, with the idleness of one at the origin of too many extravagant tales, whether the frank unraveling of his endeavours did not in fact respond to some sort of Divine Justice handed down by Aphrodite, or perhaps by Hera.

While acquitted after the court martial, especially considering the most fatal decisions had not been taken under his command, a certain _frost_ (ironic, was it not?) installed itself upon his person in the Admiralty. Over the course of a year, he saw other Captains, younger, more ambitious, with spotless service records, and perhaps more importantly, with advantageous connections and not of uncertain origins like himself, being chosen for expeditions that James should have been well qualified to command. 

"Now you know how I felt," Francis told him, and chuckled.

James had grown endeared to this self-deprecating sarcasm, but the comment did not sit well with him. He was not yet forty! Surely his career could not be over on such a sour note, not when he was still able-bodied, witty, and eager to sail again and wash down the bitter taste of defeat. So he wrote letters. And wrote. And wrote. Most missives went unanswered. To his credit, Sir John Barrow deigned to reply at last, but very succinctly implied perhaps James had gone as far as he could go in the Royal Navy, and that the merchant marine would perhaps be a worthwhile venture. 

"The merchant marine!" James scoffed, and crumpled the letter into a ball. "As if I were, what? A mediocre balding... grocer?!"

Most of his vanity had been buried in a cairn in King William's Island, indeed, but the indignity of covering shipping routes across oceans of boredom struck him like a stinging lash. 

"I'd rather never sail again," he declared, and it surprised him how eagerly William and Lizzie received this possibility.

"You could help me with my art," Wills suggested.

"Maybe it's time you settle down, have a little family, and leave all that _sailing_ behind," Lizzie said, pointedly.

"People are starting to _talk_ , James."

Ah, yes, people were bound to talk. Crozier was not a favourite in the public eye, and James's peculiar friendship with him after their return had not gone unnoticed, he knew. He was careful - he always was - to never stay more than one night in a row, and not to visit incessantly, but he could hardly help himself, could he? Good grief, they'd nearly died. It was well worth some idle gossip. Was it not?

But apparently, it was not, not with Sir James Ross and his obnoxious wife and their frequent visits and their concern for Francis's "loneliness" - sometimes voicing it right in front of James. And especially not with Sophia Cracroft making eyes at Francis, contrite and repentant for having refused him before. She was a good woman, James had to admit, and easy on the eyes if one was inclined to admire her sex, but it not so secretly enraged him that she had reaped all the benefits of a hale man, where James, where others had sowed and seen him through the lowest of lows. _You're incapable of sharing, aren't you? It's always you, you, you._ That voice! That voice in his head, he knew to whom it belonged, he knew the wry smile that accompanied that sentence in his memories, but James forbade himself to think of him. That chapter was closed and foregone, as distant as the ill-fated goose chase in the Pole.

"At this rate, you might have to marry her," he said to Francis, half in jest, after their rare evening out at the theatre ended up being thwarted by her presence.

But Francis looked pained, to his immense shock. "I think I might," he said, and not in jest.

"Do you love her, then?" James asked, too stunned to feel offended.

"I did, for a very long time."

That was not an answer, but it passed as one. Old standing promises had, it seemed, more weight than newer ones. It did not occur to James to ask what his place would be in such an arrangement, if there was ever one. Pride forbade him to. Still bemused, he stood in a small church watching their nuptials - from one of the benches, because Ross was the best man. So they would complete the orderly picture of husbands and wives, as God had intended it. It struck him then how little he belonged there, in London, in England, in the world, perhaps. 

He thought of Dundy frankly, for the first time in a very long time, of how he had left it all behind in anger and embarked for the unknown. James could not captain a ship, but he could still be a passenger. He could travel. By Jove, he would travel. To Africa again, to the Far-East, to the ends of the Earth if needed be, and why not? Perhaps even to South America, to that land stolen from him that he should never speak of out loud.

Several years later as he watched, breathless, the roaring waterfalls the locals called _Iguaçu_ with no one to witness his awe - he wondered whether Henry was happy, and the rest of his stay in Brazil was no longer as luminous.

* * *

_1857_

The bell by the door signalled a new client at a very inopportune time - Henry was just finishing the logbooks for the day, and he would be late for tea if he tarried too long. Cargo requests this late in the evening never bode well: they usually came from disorganized captains running late in their schedules, or from impertinent idlers looking for a bargain on the last ship of the day. But business was business, and he glanced up from his writing to greet the newcomer.

Good God!

"James," he gasped, and too late did it occur to him he should have called him Fitzjames.

"Henry dear," James said. He sounded weary, unsteady. Unlike what Henry remembered him to be. "Heavens, you were hiding well! I do believe I've scoured all of Newfoundland looking for you."

Recovered from his initial shock, but not from his surprise, Henry could only stare at him. Yes, it was James: a little older, the lines on his face a tad more marked, and his hair as short as it had even been. Why, there was even some grey in it - only a lock, but it rested upon his forehead clearly arranged for maximum flourish. Leave it to James to age as gracefully as possible.

"Why were you looking for me?" Henry asked at last. 

"I wanted to see you. Can a man not wish to see an old friend?"

"I would hardly call us friends," Henry said, and felt a speck of pleasure to see James's face fall. "We parted on disastrous terms, if you care to remember."

"I do remember," James said. "And it was entirely my doing. I regret it. I've come to say I regret it."

Henry knew James to be eccentric, or had known him to at least, but this untimely declaration thousands of miles from England surpassed absurdity, even for him. Why, how many years had it been? Nearly ten?

"You regret it," he repeated. "Well, that is somewhat satisfying for me to hear. I do think I shall sleep better tonight."

And yet it shocked him how much of an open book James still was for him, even after all that time: he saw his face colouring at the jab, then his mouth twisting in displeasure that his grand gesture had not the reception he expected. Henry's first instinct was to reassure him, but he stifled it and perversely enjoyed seeing him squirm. 

"I thought of you," James said. "I traveled, all these years, and I thought of you, of how I had wronged you. I felt I must apologise in person, rather than in a letter like the one I never sent you back then. But perhaps I was wrong to think this, to presume I would be welcome."

"Perhaps," Henry conceded dryly, yet a sudden fear struck him: that he would not remain stern long if James sounded this earnest. 

"Well," James said, evidently piqued, "I suppose I deserve this. But I have said what I came here to say, and this particular journey of mine has come to its end, one way or the other. Good-bye."

He whirled around in so dramatic a fashion Henry could not hold back a chuckle.

"James," he called. "Please sit."

And James stopped his furious march to the door, though he turned back to face him cautiously and approached the desk with slow steps, as if expecting him to change his mind. Henry gestured towards the chair reserved for customers, and crossed his arms over the desk. 

"How did you find me?" he asked, still bemused.

"Ah," James said, and looked entirely too pleased to be given permission to start a tirade. "It was no easy feat, believe me. Your name may be uncommon but this land is so vast it felt a rather hopeless quest. I sailed up from Rio to New York some two years ago and made a meandering way northwards by land. I could only recall what you'd told me years before about your family settling in Canada, but I could not remember the name of the land. I assumed you had joined the Navy again, but no one had heard of a Le Vesconte wherever I asked. A stroke of luck led me to Kingston - what a fine little town just off the lake! - and my asking paid off at last: I met your brother there."

"My brother! Maxwell?"

"Yes! He looks nothing like you, I am sorry to say. I never knew him in England, I think I only ever met Philip, and in passing. Not a talkative fellow, is he? He would only tell me the rest of you lived in Newfoundland, though he failed to tell me the town when pressed. So I embarked to the island. That was last spring. This is the last place I would have thought to look. King's Cove! Why, you're nearly off in the ocean, as far from the mainland as you could hope to be. "

"Fitting for an old sailor, I suppose," Henry said, wry. "My father was fond of the wild wind of the bay."

James met his gaze then, and it startled him. "Strange to think you were so close to home when we were lost up North. Is it not?" he asked.

It took Henny a moment to recover from this unexpected punch. He cleared his throat. "Not quite," he said, ambiguously. "I am as far from London as I am from King William's Land just now."

"Even so." James glanced away. "You must get terrible winters up here."

"No winters come close to terrible after what we endured."

He had not spoken about the Arctic in years. His family knew better than to ask. And here waltzed James, bringing it up as if it were a harmless topic fit for conversation. Henry clenched his fist, but the nonchalant creature before him did not notice his discomfort.

"Business is going well, I suppose?" James asked, taking in the shipping office with a glance. His gaze lingered on the map of the Canadian routes on the opposite wall. "I never thought you would consider a post like this one. When they suggested the merchant marine to me, I refused at once."

"I did not have a choice," Henry said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Our expedition left me a cripple."

James looked startled. He stared at him, as if searching for traces of infirmity on Henry, and when he found none he must have arrived at the obvious conclusion of his foot. A pained expression crossed over his gaze.

"I did not know. I am sorry! Harry. I did not know."

Henry could not decide what stung more, James's pity, or being called Harry by him. He had no right. No right. But James spoke again, before he got angrier.

"Nothing turned out the way it should have, did it?" he said, wistful.

"What do you mean by that?"

"The way we once dreamt it, when we were lads: you and I, unstoppable, sailing all over the world."

"Ha!" Henry did scoff then, or rather, snarled. "That dream's undoing was no fault of mine. How is Crozier these days?"

James shrugged. The grey lock on his forehead fluttered anxiously with the gesture. "I would not know," he said. "Last I heard, his wife was expecting their third child."

Henry took in the news and James's attitude, expecting to feel something akin to glee or to vindication, but it arose nothing overly passionate in him. It had been very long, hadn't it? It seemed rather juvenile to wear his past anger like a war wound or medal - though he supposed feeling juvenile in James's presence was fitting, in a way.

"I see," he said, simply. "Is that the reason for your long travels?"

"In a way, yes." James crossed his legs, projecting an ease Henry suspected he did not feel. "It was the reason I left, though I will say England and I had gone as far as we could go. It's an unforgiving land for bastards, after all." 

He would have never said that word out loud in the past. Henry stared at him, wondering how much he knew him still. Perhaps he was reading him wrong. Perhaps James _was_ more at ease, both with himself and with the situation of his birth.

"So you went to Rio?" he prompted, keenly aware that the James he once knew longed to see the land of his birth, but never dared to.

"Amongst other places," James said. "Words cannot describe the beauty of South America. Oh, you would have loved it, Dundy. I know you would have. I wish you could have seen it, I wished so many times you were with me, every time I saw a bird or an animal I knew you would love. The more I saw Brazil, the more I thought of you, and the more I wondered how you were. Whether you were happy. I hope you've been happy? It would pain me to know my stupid ideas for glory in the Arctic wrecked your life."

Henry offered a smile at this hyperbole. "Come now," he said. "My life was not wrecked. Perhaps thrown a little off its course, but that was not your doing: I wanted that Arctic glory myself. But God had other plans, it seems, and we all paid for our recklessness."

"Some more than others," James said. "And I know now that your steadfastness was a virtue and not a fault. I wish I'd known it then."

"Think no more of it," Henry said, and the instant relief that filled him as he spoke these words surprised him. Perhaps he had forgiven James, after all. He had not expected this to feel pleasing for himself. "I think we might have been too proud to lick our own wounds in each other's presence."

"You may be right. But you have not said whether you've been happy. Whether you are happy now."

Henry sighed, hesitated. Forgiving James was one thing, inviting him back into his life was quite another. Was he expected to give an abridged version of his life in these long years? How much detail should he give? How much did he truly want to share? He leaned back in his chair and sighed again.

"I am content," he said. "Though I have not always been. You aren't wrong that this is a boring post, but it has its own excitement. It's an obvious port for supplies, minor repairs. We get enough traffic. Some years ago we had two bad winters in a row, where ships could not sail, and that nearly left me bankrupt. My brother Philip had to lend me money, and I pulled through."

James nodded, as if fascinated by these details he shared, however vague or unexciting. Henry hesitated again. He used to crave for James's undivided attention, before. He suspected he still did. He tried to rein himself in, to rise above that need, but in the end he was utterly unable to stop himself from speaking.

"Nothing did turn out like I once dreamt it, you are right, though those newer dreams no longer featured you. My father died shortly after I joined them here. He found it disgraceful that I was never promoted to Commander, let alone to Captain. I never had a chance to make him proud. I don't know that I ever would have." He averted his gaze, not wanting to see James's face when he said his next sentence. "And I married. I wanted a large family, as large as mine was when I was a boy. But my poor Anne died not long after the birth of our second child. So here I am, a widower, a clerk, and indebted to my little brother. But I am also a father, and that... that makes it all worthwhile, it truly does. I believe I am late for tea with them just now."

He glanced up to flash him a smile. James, just as he expected, looked bewildered.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, Henry! I am very sorry for your loss. I did expect you to be married. You always fancied ladies far more than I. I'd have been a tyrant, I know it. But you... you deserved a far better fate. Surely you can remarry? Have all the children you longed for?"

Henry shook his head. "No," he said. "That was a one-time venture I would not repeat, for fear of spoiling our little peace. I have a good nursemaid. My sister helps me with the schooling. They have many cousins, at least, so they will not be lonely growing up."

"Well, I will not delay you further. Please do not be late for tea on my account. I will be on my way now."

James rose, turning his hat between his fingers. Henry rose as well, taking his cane and his own hat as he walked around the desk. Up close, James seemed a little frailer than he'd been in his youth, but he still stood with the same cocky aplomb of before. Henry wondered at how satisfying it felt to be standing next to him with a smile, as if no time had passed at all.

"You are staying at the inn, I suppose?" he asked.

"I haven't had time to make arrangements," James said. "I came with the two o' clock coach and dove straight into my search for you. But if there is an inn, certainly, I will stay there, and leave tomorrow morning now that I've seen you."

His tone had a pleading edge, as if he were asking Henry a question. He was hoping to be asked to stay longer, undoubtedly. And Henry... all Henry could think is that it would be a terrible shame to have James leaving so soon after having found him again. He wanted to hear the tales of his travels. And after all those years, the irresistible cheer that wrapped around James like a ray of sunshine lured him closer, made him long for his company.

"Why don't you join me for tea?" he asked, and hoped he would not live to regret it.

* * *

James hadn't had time to properly admire architecture in the Canadian territories in his desperate search, but he did notice at once how much garden there was around Henry's house. The two-storey little cottage stood in the middle of a vast green square, surrounded by fruit trees and rose bushes he guessed would bloom in the spring to liven up the house, though the red and orange of autumn gave the garden a striking melancholic air.

Two excited cries welcomed Henry home the moment he entered, and the sound of little feet running to the front door intimidated James enough to freeze on the doorstep.

"Papa! You missed tea!" a little girl piped up, and jumped on Henry's arms. He lifted her easily despite his limp, holding her with just one arm and letting her weight rest on his good hip. 

A boy ran to Henry too, and James gasped at the resemblance. He looked exactly like what James imagined Henry looked as a child, if he had ever asked himself that question. The same wild, dark hair, the same long, almost delicate face structure, yet with a firm jaw and chiseled cheekbones. Only his eyes were different: green and rounder, undoubtedly after his late mother.

"I am very sorry I missed our tea," Henry said, and wiped the little girl's mouth with his handkerchief: she had jam on her face. He did the same to the boy without faltering in his hold of her, even as he bent down to reach his son's face - a long practiced gesture. "This is my friend Captain James Fitzjames, coming to visit us."

The boy's eyes went wide when he saw James, who was still standing somewhat outside the house. 

" _The_ James Fitzjames? Oh! My Papa told me I was named after you!"

Stunned by this sudden revelation and by the fact that he was being spoken to directly, James took a little too long to ask, "Were you, now?"

"This is James Dundas Le Vesconte," Henry said, not meeting James's gaze. "And this little lady is Rosie."

"Pleased to meet you, Captain F'james," Rosie said in a sweet, childish voice. She could not be older than four, but she had her father's eyes, sharp yet kind.

For a long, terrible moment, James just did not know what to say. These children seemed so real, so friendly, and so _Henry_ \- charmed by him already without having had to do anything to deserve it. 

"I am very pleased to meet you too," he managed to reply, though he sounded stiffer than what he would have liked.

"Well, come inside," Henry told James. "Mrs. Mersey will take the children to my sister's for their evening lessons, and we may have our tea in the sitting room."

"Oh, can't we stay, please?" James Dundas begged, clinging to Henry's free arm. "I want to stay with Captain Fitzjames, I'm sure he has a lot of stories to tell!"

"I am sure he does," Henry said, "but today is Wednesday and Aunt Rose must already be waiting for you. Perhaps he will still be around for a story before bed, if you are good."

"But we are always good!"

"Hmm," Henry said, raising a skeptic eyebrow as he set his daughter down.

"Can you tell us about the cheetah?" she asked, looking straight at James. "Papa never wants to talk about his cheetah."

"He doesn't?" James raised one eyebrow and glanced at Henry, who would still not meet his gaze. "That will not do. I must stay until you return and tell you all about our cheetah."

The children broke into an excited flurry of cheers and thank-yous, barely tempered by Henry's gentle demands that they settle down. Somehow more at ease with their enthusiasm, James stepped closer to the three of them, wondering what he'd do if the boy got into a fancy to hug him or ask to be held. But the frenzied chattering brought a kind-looking, matronly woman to the anteroom at once; Mrs. Mersey, James guessed. She curtsied briefly when she saw him and then shook her head at Henry.

"Really, sir, you should have warned me you had company today! I would not have sent Jane home early, she could have waited on you."

"It's all right, Mrs. Mersey. James and I can manage on our own just fine."

Henry met James's gaze then for the first time since they'd entered the house, and the old, familiar mischievousness dancing in his eyes made his heart give a little. For the briefest of moments he saw a flash of his old Dundy, and James had to cross his hands behind his back as if he were still a sailor - to stop the sudden impulse to go to him and hold him by the arms and keep him close so that he would never lose him again.

"Don't you worry, Mrs. Mersey," James said with a smile, "I will do my best to see that tea is a mischief-free affair."

The nurse looked at him with the distrust of one who'd seen too many ill-behaved children in her career to have faith in such statements, but Henry laughed, and bent down to kiss his children good-bye. The house felt eerily quiet the moment they left.

James followed Henry into the sitting room, minding his steps not to overtake him. A brown, long-haired cocker spaniel perked up and rose to his feet when he saw James, but Henry made a noise of soothing nonsense in his direction and the dog wagged his tail and trotted closer obediently. It should have surprised him that Henry would keep a dog indoors, but he certainly knew enough of his past love for pets that it made perfect sense.

"Hullo there," James said and bent down to stroke him. He was a friendly animal: he licked his hands for more petting.

"That would be Mister Puddle. Or Puddles, for short," Henry said affectionately. "We also have a cat, but I think she must be hiding from you."

He was clearing the table from the children's tea, placing tea cups and plates in a tray. James guessed Mrs. Mersey would have done this had it not been for the commotion at the front door, but Henry did it with a naturality that betrayed how often he had to do it himself in his chaotic little house. They'd had stewards or servants of some sort aboard waiting on them, but not always. In the long periods of inactivity on land, or in the smaller inns where they used to shut themselves in from the rest of the world when docking somewhere, they had to fend off for themselves. Henry used to make a mean tea in the Far East, James recalled. And in the Persian Gulf he'd tried his hand at coffee, though sadly those excellent beans had not made it to England. 

He smiled at the memory and joined Henry at the table. Puddles also trotted closer and wagged his tail, hoping for leftovers. The children had made a bit of a mess with the bread and biscuits, and Henry fed him distractedly.

"Tea's still warm," he told James. "Why don't you sit while I take this to the kitchen?"

James nodded and reached for the teapot, pouring a generous ration in the lone empty cup left on the table. Henry's, he guessed. Unsure what to do with himself, he worried the table into a neater appearance, fixing cutlery and napkins, then ended up serving two handfuls of pastry into some plates. Terribly domestic, and terribly comforting. He had been adamant, before, that this was not the kind of life suited for him, but would it be so terrible if Henry was in it? Henry, and Puddles, and the children, day after day - a simpler life. It was dizzying to consider.

Henry rescued him from his inaction as he returned with a teacup for him, and a hand behind his back.

"This will cheer us up, hm?" he said, and showed him a small bottle of whisky.

"Ha! It will indeed," James said.

He felt infinitely more at ease once he'd had some warm tea burning with the taste of alcohol, and Henry across from him. He had not changed one bit, apparently: he still ate his sweets with voracious pleasure, savouring each bite with a not so discreet smile. The improvised hot toddy, too, had an evident effect on his bearing, now his eyes were more animated, his gaze more playful, and James could do little else than to stare at him with growing fondness. 

"Good God, I've missed you," he said with a fresh wave of affection, and then regretted his candour at once. 

Henry stopped in mid-bite and stared at him. "Have you, now?" he asked, laconic.

"I did miss you," James insisted, and reached for his hand across the table. "Everywhere I went I missed you. I missed my good friend Dundy, my second-in-mischief, my one and only Lieutenant..."

He squeezed the hand, but Henry removed his. Chastised, James trailed off.

"Hm," Henry said. "I am no longer that man."

"Aren't you?"

"Not quite. We've gone our separate ways. I cannot... I will not go back to the way we were, you and I."

It felt very much like a punch to the gut. Blinking, James tried rather unsuccessfully to keep a composed face. But he took heart in the fact that Henry looked pained to say this, and clung to this crumb of hope. 

"Why not?" he cried.

"James," Henry said, very gently. "This is a very small town. My little family could not withstand any scandal. The kind of scandal that would come with two young bachelors and their rowdy shenanigans."

"I am no longer rowdy, by God I am not. Henry! I will be an angel." Dundy smiled at this, with the same kind of indulgent fondness he'd displayed to his children earlier. James added, "There will be no scandal. Not a hint of it."

"It isn't just that. I cannot have you here, charming the little ones, and then running off on a wild adventure and breaking their hearts."

"I've had enough of wild adventures." James shook his head. "I've been roving all over the world for years now. Being reckless to my heart's content. It was not as satisfying as it once was. I never found what I was searching for. _You_ , Henry. I was looking for you."

Henry said nothing. He looked hesitant, unimpressed.

"I'm here to stay, Harry," James insisted, his voice wavering again. "If you will have me. I needn't live in the same town as you. I can establish myself in the closest large city. We may write to each other. I should like that very much. I may be older, but I still have some wit, I hope, enough to charm you all over again."

"Charm me!" Henry's mouth curled up in a lopsided smile. "Am I to keep all your letters in a drawer and read them as I blush?"

"Please say you will! Please don't send me away, Henry. I will be respectable and only see you as often as propriety demands. No one will ever guess what I am to you."

"What you are to me! What you were, perhaps." Henry shook his head. "But what will you be? What do you intend to be?"

"Why, your old friend. Your James." 

"My James," he repeated, and reached for James's hand.


	4. A Gentlemen's Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry attempts to make a deal with Crozier to keep James, and finds Jopson instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY THIS IS SO LATE Le Vesconte/Jopson was supposed to be a crack pairing with @Wolfermann and then it GREW TO 10,000 WORDS out of nowhere ("haha what if these two got together for the lulz ...Unless?")
> 
> Everyone is a little OOC in this, sorry. 
> 
> Please let me know if you read this chapter haha I worry only two (2) people ever cared about this pairing, one of them being me.

* * *

Their otherwise perfectly ordinary day turned sour in the afternoon. Lieutenant Le Vesconte _, Commander_ Le Vesconte now, arrived quite uninvited to their flat in London, offered a stiff greeting to Captain Crozier, and sat on an armchair of the sitting room. Thomas thought, in passing, that he looked well and recovered after the expedition, and he felt happy for him. Of course, that was before Le Vesconte began speaking.

While not expected to wait on both men (on Frank, yes, still: always; on visitors, hardly), Thomas still regarded tea as his domain with particular zeal. He brought an impeccable tray to the sitting room and placed it on the low table between the chairs. That was the moment he began disliking Le Vesconte: he examined the pastries in the tray with a wolfish curiosity that was not gentleman-like at all. _Oh,_ Thomas realised, _this will be very unpleasant._

"Stay, Thomas," Francis said, and gestured towards one of the armchairs without looking at him. He had likely arrived at the same conclusion about the unpleasantness.

Thomas sat, then, a little stiffly, and busied himself pouring tea in the cups. He had not brought one for himself: he was still not used to being included in the Captain's company. It was too late to amend this, but it annoyed him. Something in Le Vesconte's smile told him he was perfectly aware of this.

"This is good tea," he said after a sip from the cup Thomas handed him. "Thank you, Jopson."

"You are most welcome," Thomas said, perhaps a little too dryly.

He tucked one stray lock behind his ear and glanced at Francis, who looked just as wary as he. Le Vesconte, in contrast, seemed to revel in the general frost of the room. He set his cup down on the table, crossed his hands over his lap, and finally spoke.

"Now see here, Captain. I hope you will appreciate my frankness if I remark there is no love lost between you and me."

Thomas started at this, but Francis merely nodded - with his deceptively languid smile that signified contempt.

"But I must admit," Le Vesconte went on, "with just as much frankness, that _he_ misses you incessantly. This will not come as a shock to you, evidently, or to good Jopson here. Now James is too proud to admit his longing, of course, but I know him too well to disregard it."

 _Decidedly unpleasant,_ Thomas thought in dismay. Oh, he'd have rather had this matter forgotten and buried away with the rest of their disastrous journey to the Arctic. At first, he had borne the Captain's distaste for Fitzjames and the private complaints with good humour: the young Commander was, after all, insufferable and arrogant. It was to be expected that Francis would hate him. And it _was_ a slight that he had been in charge of hiring, and had populated the expedition with his personal chums. His strident redecorating of Erebus felt a mockery of Captain Ross's tasteful arranging.

But after the Captain's long illness and during the interminable trek on land, something had changed between them, something Thomas hated and feared in equal parts. He said nothing, obviously. What could he say? It wasn't as if he had the _right_ to demand anything of Francis, despite their own long-standing arrangement. So he breathed out a sigh of relief when they were rescued, and he latched onto Frank with an almost embarrassing eagerness. Being asked to room with him in London was like being gifted the moon: to be with him, day after day, to share his bed at night, to look after him and to make sure all was the way he liked. And so Thomas imagined Fitzjames forgotten, and he thanked his lucky stars for it.

And here was Le Vesconte, sticking his nose where no one called him! Thomas would have wanted to oust him out of the room.

"I see," the Captain said calmly, and he raised an eyebrow. "So have you become his errand boy?"

"In a manner of speaking, but he does not know I came here today." Le Vesconte looked straight at Thomas, then, and added, "I hope I will not scandalise Jopson if I say I am not the _boy_ in our arrangement, or at least, I rarely am."

Thomas stared at him, wide-eyed, with the vague and troubling realisation that there was a handsome ruggedness to his effrontery. Next to him, Francis lost his nerve.

"You are too forward," he scolded.

"Perhaps I am. But I fear the nature of my errand necessitates being too forward."

Le Vesconte crossed his legs. Thomas could not help noticing how stiffly he gripped the arms of the chair, betraying his otherwise nonchalant pose.

"Please do not misunderstand me. James is precious to me, and I would rather die than to lose him. I am not being hyperbolic: I fought tooth and nail to keep him alive both in China and in the Arctic, and have been by his side for seven years now. I have no intention of being replaced by a newcomer who is old enough to be our father."

Oh dear, Thomas thought. He _was_ going to have to throw Le Vesconte out of the flat. Preferably before the Captain murdered him. He tensed in his seat, fully prepared to jump to his feet and grab Le Vesconte by the collar, and perhaps sneak a blow or two before showing him the door. But Francis stayed very still, though his nostrils flared at the slight.

"That is, unless he asks me to leave," Le Vesconte went on. "But he has not. He has amply demonstrated his regard for me since we returned, and that suffices me. I am not a jealous man in the bed-room, Captain. There are no fetters in our bed; there have never been in our long acquaintance. And as such I am prepared to tolerate his fascination with you."

"Tolerate," Francis repeated with a scoff.

"Quite. I am willing to go to unspeakable lengths to make him happy. I hope you are too." Le Vesconte uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "You see," he said, "I was hoping we could come to a gentlemen's agreement, you and I."

"A gentlemen's agreement?" The Captain scoffed again. "To share him like two farmers share some cattle?"

"If you find that euphemism more to your liking, we may use it indeed. But I would rather think of ourselves as gentlemen - perfectly capable of reaching a civil understanding."

"I would hardly call it gentleman-like to discuss this behind the back of the man in question."

Thomas rather thought it was also not gentleman-like to discuss it in front of him, but he stayed silent and examined his crossed hands on his lap. Le Vesconte cleared his throat.

"Not behind his back, or at least, not for long," he said. "I will tell him at once of the outcome of this visit. He may be angry when I tell him I came to see you, but he will be delighted to find that you said yes."

"And you assume..." Francis hissed, "you assume I will consent to this depravity you so brashly have come to propose?"

"Why, yes." Le Vesconte seemed genuinely surprised at this. "Why wouldn't you? It's _James_ ," he said, and the way he pronounced that name betrayed all of the reverence and regard he held for the man, even when suggesting whoring him out like this.

Thomas felt sick to his stomach, and more so when the Captain remained silent - evidently conceding this point.

"What is it you suggest?" he asked, after a pause. His voice had a hesitant edge Thomas disliked profoundly.

"James will call on you, tomorrow or whenever he finds it amenable. It is entirely up to you to negotiate the terms of your own agreement, of course, I will not meddle between you. And should we all come to an understanding, well, I am my father's eldest son. I own some land in Devon, a charming estate in a quiet location, suitable to host us if you so desire for a season or however long you need. I will make myself scarce when necessary - and I should hope you will too."

Le Vesconte looked straight at Thomas then, who jumped at finding himself the direct recipient of his mischievous, disquieting glance.

"Jopson is welcome to join us, of course."

"You leave Jopson out of your sordid plans, you hear me!" the Captain exclaimed, losing his temper in earnest for the first time in this ghastly evening. Thomas's heart fluttered a bit that it was on his account.

"Sir, sir," he said, soothingly and met Le Vesconte's gaze with deliberate challenge as he added, "Frank." He reached to pat the Captain's knee with overt familiarity. "It's quite alright. Do not trouble yourself on my account."

Francis gripped the hand over his knee and held it tight. "Thank you, Thomas," he said, somewhat calmer. His gaze hardened when he looked at Le Vesconte again. "We may proceed with your design. But I'll not duel you or entertain any sort of juvenile nonsense with you should he decide to leave you after all."

Le Vesconte laughed. "I am a good sport, Captain. I will bow out gracefully if that is what he wants. But a word of caution - in this, at least, I am seven years your senior. He bores easily, and he is far too selfish a lover for his own good. I do not envy your position as his new plaything."

"Enough!" Francis said. "Get out of here, you impudent man, before I change my mind! No, Thomas, stay. Le Vesconte is perfectly capable of finding the door on his own."

"I insist, sir. I would see the door shut with my own eyes."

"As you wish." Le Vesconte reached for his hat. "Good-day, Captain. Jopson."

Thomas followed him downstairs, fists into balls. How dare he come to their house. How dare he trouble their peace! How dare he, how dare he!

Le Vesconte swung the door open and glanced at him. Thomas's distaste must have been evident, because he tipped his hat at him with a smirk. _That's it,_ he thought. He had no reason to be civil with his provocation. Thomas grabbed him by the arm and shoved him against the wall. Le Vesconte let out a muffled cry of surprise.

"What need had you to come here to offer him Fitzjames on a silver platter?" Thomas growled, speaking into the other man's face. "We were perfectly happy without you!"

Le Vesconte stared at him with evident surprise at first, but with his understanding came a short little laugh.

"Is that so?" he asked, making no move to break free. "I must apologise, old fellow. I had no idea you were so invested in Crozier, or I'd have run the scheme by you first. But don't you fret now - I don't see their passion lasting longer than a few months. Soon he will be back in your arms, quite contrite and loving as ever."

"You disgust me," Thomas said and gave him a final push before letting go of him.

"Can't do much about that." Le Vesconte fixed his collar calmly. "I hope we'll become better friends in time, you and I."

"Not bloody likely."

Le Vesconte smirked, winked at him, and stepped outside. Thomas did not shut the door at once: he watched him walk away down the street, eyes narrowed, to make sure he was leaving in earnest. Then he huffed, closed the door, and went back upstairs where the Captain was waiting. He reached for Thomas's hand, drawing him closer.

"You won't mind, will you, my lad? I should have asked you this before agreeing. I'm a wretched man."

"You are not, Frank dearest," Thomas lied. "I don't mind at all, as long as you are happy."

"You are too good to me," the Captain said, and kissed his hand softly.

Thomas smiled at the gesture but wondered, for the first time, whether he was _too_ good to him indeed.

* * *

Le Vesconte's estate was larger than Thomas expected. The living quarters were modest, compared to the large manors in the vicinity, but the extension of the land largely compensated for this lack of pomposity. The small country hall seemed to be drowning in an endless field of green, extending up to or perhaps even including a frondous forest to the South. Nevertheless, Thomas made sure not to show any signs of awe or admiration as they settled in the house, keeping a studiously neutral expression as he was given a summary tour of the interiors.

The decorations were as plain and rustic as their owner. _What a waste,_ Thomas thought, pursing his lips as he examined the linen of the Captain's bedding with a critical eye. He would have furnished this house with far better taste. But it would do, he supposed, and, in any case, Francis would spend very little time sleeping in this bed. It disgusted him to find an interconnecting door to what was evidently Fitzjames's bedroom. God-damned Le Vesconte, God damn him to hell! As the master of the house, he had his own quarters at the end of the corridor, overlooking the meadow. And overlooking the bedrooms, in a way.

"This will be your room, Mr Jopson," said Carrick, the straight-faced valet who had shown him upstairs and helped him unpack the Captain's belongings.

He was gesturing towards a room in the same corridor, smaller than the Captain's or Fitzjames's, but unequivocally fit for a guest and not a servant.

"Oh. No, no, there must be a mistake," Thomas said, keeping his tone gentle to avoid further embarrassment. "I cannot sleep up here with them, it would not be proper."

"There is no mistake, sir. Mr Le Vesconte gave explicit instructions that this was to be your room."

Being called 'sir' made him flinch. Thomas gave in for the time being, not wanting to argue with Carrick - especially not considering how much they were bound to interact in the future. The decorations were just as plain as those of the other rooms, but the morning sun gave it a charming air with the curtains drawn.

"Where is Captain Crozier now?" he asked, as he made his way to the window. The view was pleasant enough.

"Having tea with Mr Fitzjames in the sitting room," Carrick answered.

He'd spoken in a neutral tone, but Thomas glanced at him obliquely. Mr Fitzjames, and not Captain Fitzjames. How much did Carrick know of their proclivities? Was he privy to the sordid arrangement they had all entered for the spring? And most importantly, was he trustworthy, could they count on his discretion? Thomas did not trust Le Vesconte's ability to hire staff. He pursed his lips and returned to his view out the window. Le Vesconte, precisely, was walking down the meadow in the direction of the stables, dressed in a very casual manner. On a whim, Thomas decided he would go have a word with him about the sleeping rooms situation, and took his leave of Carrick.

Outside, the brisk breeze of spring reminded Thomas of the sea. He let out a sigh - only a brief one. Perhaps they would sail again one day. He made his way to the stables, and the damp grass licked his freshly polished shoes. One did not get this kind of mess on yourself at sea. Or in the city, for that matter. He would have to clean them again when he returned to the house. Once he entered the stable, both the groom and Le Vesconte showed him the solution: they were wearing tall boots, fit for the countryside with little fuss about the mud. Thomas owned nothing of the sort.

Le Vesconte was grooming the horse himself: he was brushing her mane while Morgan, the groom, only assisted in holding the animal in place.

"That's a good lass, my beauty," Le Vesconte said softly, and the mare neighed gratefully. "You'll look fine in just a moment, oh yes you will."

His gestures were so very gentle, full of genuine care. Thomas flushed without really knowing why. He felt considerably more out of place when Le Vesconte turned to face him: despite the cooler weather, he was only wearing a vest on top of his white shirt, which he had unbuttoned terribly low. He had a slight fuzz there. Dark hair, not greying. Thomas swallowed.

"Ah, Jopson," he said, his face lighting up. "Come to see the horses?"

"Not quite," Thomas said. "I was looking for you."

"Me?" Le Vesconte quirked one eyebrow up and gave the mare a pat on the flank. Morgan drove her away. "I thought you found me disgusting," he added, when the groom was out of earshot.

"I still do," Thomas bit back, "and I likely always will. But never mind that. I came to ask you why you are having me board in the same wing as you. Surely it is more proper that I room with the valet elsewhere."

"Why would you? You are no longer a steward, Jopson. Crozier made you a Lieutenant. Now the Admiralty may be particular with that decision, but I was there at that table when it happened and we all agreed to it. So you will stay with us. Besides," he said, and glanced towards Morgan with caution, "I would have thought you preferred to stay close to your old man when you sleep."

Whatever pleasant sentiment at being considered a Lieutenant quickly faded with Le Vesconte's jab. Thomas frowned.

"My old man, as you call him, will be too busy entertaining _your_ man to mind me. I have your devious designs to thank for that."

"So you'd rather hide away in the servants' quarters to pretend it isn't happening?" Le Vesconte stepped closer to be able to speak more clearly. He was laughing, the pig. "Oh, do cheer up, Jopson. I've told you, they will tire of each other soon. Would you not rather be nearby when that happens?"

Thomas made a disgusted sound. "I understand little of this love you claim to feel."

"You'll come around," Le Vesconte said. "In the meantime, I suppose we will have to find ways to entertain ourselves, you and I. Can you hunt? I've seen you with a gun, you were a passable shot. Can you ride?"

Thomas had no obligation to continue the conversation. He ought to turn around and leave. But he stayed, for excess of politeness, and perhaps also of pride at being considered only a 'passable' shot. He could shoot better than several Terror officers he could think of.

"I can hunt," he said, defiant. "I did little else growing up. But I had no use for riding."

"Well, you'll tire yourself to death running after prey if you aren't ahorse. What better time to learn? Morgan! Bring Minnie around. We are teaching Jopson to ride."

"No," Thomas protested, but Morgan was diligent and approached with the mare in tow.

"Come on," Le Vesconte said, grinning at him. "We will turn you into a fine country gentleman ere the end of spring. Don't you fret: Minnie here is the sweetest, most patient steed you could ever hope to have. Aren't you, my girl?"

He murmured sweet nothings into the horse's neck. Still troubled by the tenderness of the gesture, Thomas startled when Morgan showed him the stirrups for him to climb.

"No, no," he said again, embarrassed, but before he knew what was happening, Le Vesconte was behind him, holding him by the waist as if he were a young girl, and he half lifted him against the mare. Too shocked to protest, Thomas used the impulse to climb up, somewhat clumsily, and both the groom and Le Vesconte hauled him up ahorse.

"Up you go," Le Vesconte said. "And you will ruin your fine city shoes if you continue wearing them here. The room you're sleeping in was my brother Charlie's. Or Maxwell's, I forget which. There must be suitable boots for you to wear in one of the chests."

"My shoes are fine, sir," Thomas replied, calling him that out of habit.

"None of that, Le Vesconte will do. But suit yourself, though I think you will regret it. Just slip your feet in the stirrups like this. And sit very straight, as if an officer were nearby aboard, that's a good lad. Now see here, these are the reins, this is how you'll tell her which way to go. She's a living thing, not an armchair: you must learn to tell if she is upset with you or agreeable to your command. Talk to her so she gets used to you."

"Talk to her?" Jopson repeated, a little overwhelmed with the realisation that the horse was indeed a living thing with her own mind, and that he had no idea how to command her.

"I saw you talking to Neptune, once or twice during the journey. This is very much the same principle. Be cheery and she will listen."

Thomas pursed his lips, annoyed with the ridicule Le Vesconte would put him through. Still, he made an effort to sound pleasant.

"Hullo Minnie," he said gently. To his surprise, the horse turned her head towards him, listening. "I'm afraid I make a poor master just now," he told her with more ease, "but we will be good friends, won't we, girl?"

"Excellent," Le Vesconte said. He sounded delighted. "You are a natural at this, Jopson. Do you like animals much?"

"Some," he said, vaguely flustered with the compliment.

"I am crazy about them - always have been, since I was a boy. If you've ever heard the story about the Clio's cheetah, and I am sure you must have, let me tell you it was entirely my doing."

Thomas did not know how to respond to this enthusiasm, but he did not need to: Morgan was leading Minnie, and she took some obedient steps forward. Le Vesconte continued giving him a lesson in riding with the same boyish enthusiasm that was, to his surprise, quite catchy. By the end of the hour, Thomas was able to graduate to a light trot.

"Hardy there, Jopson," Le Vesconte told him. "We'll make a rider out of you."

Now Thomas was not sure whether he meant to slap the horse's flank in encouragement, but the light smack landed squarely on his own thigh. The sting sent a rush straight up Thomas's body, and he gasped. Le Vesconte winked at him and waved at Morgan for help.

"I think we will be great friends, you and I," he said, and walked away towards the house before Thomas stopped being shocked enough to consider climbing down the horse.

* * *

A week into the lessons, Thomas would have hardly called himself a rider, but he could command Minnie with a steadier hand, and Le Vesconte decreed this was enough to hunt. They would not gallop, he said, and most of the shooting would take place afoot. So off they went very early one morning, so early that Francis and Fitzjames had not yet risen from their contented stupor. Thomas found the thought revolting enough that he readied himself even faster than he used to at sea. Outside, he was delighted to find that two dogs would join them: two brown retrievers that greeted them excitedly. Le Vesconte bent down to pet them, embracing them both at the same time as they licked him all over.

"This one is Chester," he told Thomas between two laughs as he stroked the larger one, "and the little one is Blaze. My two boys." He straightened and added, "Well then, Jopson! You look quite the hunter this morning!"

He looked at him up and down with frank appreciation and for once, Thomas did not find it intrusive. He allowed himself a small smile.

"I helped myself to your brother's clothes," he explained.

"I see that! They suit you just fine. But let us get going, before it gets too late. We will ride just past the woods and hunt the waterfowl upstream."

Morgan handed them their guns and assured them he would follow on foot. The morning dew had settled on the grass, creating somewhat of a mist. This spring was warmer than expected, Thomas supposed, though anything felt balmy compared to either Pole. They rode in a comfortable silence, only interrupted by the dogs' occasional yapping.

"I suppose these are still your lands?" he asked, seeing no markings as they neared the woods.

"Yes," Le Vesconte said. "The stream is what divided the parcels, long ago. We shall be there shortly. Quiet now, Chester! Whoa!"

The stream was perhaps six feet wide, slow enough to attract a variety of waterfowl, ducks surely. They dismounted just as it came in sight, and Le Vesconte put a finger on his lips to demand silence. The dogs were now tense with the imminent hunt. They still had to walk to a spot where the water ran calm enough to attract more birds, threading through the bushes of the edge of the river and minding the creaking branches.

"Steady," Le Vesconte whispered as he stopped just behind a tree. "Do you see them?"

Thomas had to lean close to him to see as well, just over his shoulder: a family of brown-feathered geese bathing in peace. Those would make a fine dinner, and yet they were almost too beautiful to hunt.

"Gorgeous," Thomas answered, in a whisper, almost regretfully.

"Aren't they?" Le Vesconte let out a sigh, as if he shared the sentiment. "I used to hate hunting when I was a lad. My sister says I cried the first time my father took me. I think I wanted to keep all the birds and take them home."

Thomas, still pressed to his back, glanced at him with surprise at this unexpected confession. "Then why do it?" he asked.

Le Vesconte turned to look at him as well. They were standing so close Thomas almost took a step back, but did not do it for fear of scaring the prey before they were ready to shoot.

"Well, I do like a fine goose for dinner," he said, and chuckled. "Don't you?"

"Yes," Thomas said, and nearly felt compelled to share a story of his own, of how one time when he was nine, he had finally shot something worthier than a pigeon or a partridge, and dragged the large goose all the way home: they had food for days, and his mother and Jane had used the feathers to stuff their winter coats and the grease to make soap. That was the first time Thomas felt truly useful. Yet he stayed silent, and broke eye contact with Le Vesconte. "Let's hunt," he added, and stepped away to take his mark.

Le Vesconte circled around the tree to get into position as well, then asked, "Ready?" When Thomas nodded, he hissed to the dogs, "Hup hup! Get 'em, boys!"

The dogs sprinted forward, disturbing the birds into taking flight. They were easy marks: Thomas shot once, had time for a quick reload, and shot a second one just before it was out of range. Next to him, Le Vesconte shot only once, but also on target.

"Fetch!" he shouted, and the dogs disappeared off to retrieve the birds. "Excellent job, Jopson. You are winning two to one."

"I did not know we were counting," Thomas said, and couldn't help a short laugh, taken in by the thrill of the hunt.

By the time Morgan joined them, about an hour later, the count had evened out, and they were more than well provisioned for the week. Still reeling, Thomas sat down by the edge of the stream and wet his face to calm down. Le Vesconte, in contrast, joined the dogs in the water, half washing the mud off them and half playing with them. He was getting soaked from head to toe but he did not seem to mind at all. There was something juvenile, childish even, to see him being so careless, only minding the dogs and the moment they were caught up in. Thomas watched them, amused, unsure whether his fondness was limited to the dogs, or if it included roguish Le Vesconte as well.

Not quite liking the direction his thoughts were taking, he walked back to Morgan and the horses to tell him to bring a change of clothes for his master, but he found the groom busy cleaning the game they had hunted. Pursing his lips, Thomas rummaged in Le Vesconte's riding bag and retrieved a drying cloth, and also a clean shirt and trousers. When he joined him again, Le Vesconte was out of the stream, trying to shake the excess water off himself with little success.

"Here," Thomas said, and handed him the drying cloth.

"That's jolly good of you, Jopson," he said, and began drying off. "Thank you. Are you always this thoughtful?"

"No," Thomas said, taken aback. "Yes. I don't know."

Le Vesconte flashed him a funny look. Thomas half-expected him to undress in front of him with provoking brazenness, but he turned away from him to change, leaving him only to have a glimpse of his bare back. It surprised him to see some scars there. The more recent ones, still flesh-coloured, belonged to the Arctic, he guessed, but others had faded to a pale white. Le Vesconte had fought in the Far-East with Fitzjames, Thomas recalled. He did not know why this made him uneasy; it was unfitting, perhaps, to imagine this man he so disliked capable of courage in the battlefield, of conducting an assault to success. But he was being unfair: Le Vesconte had proved himself competent in King William's Land before the rescue. Troubled by the sight of his bare legs as he changed trousers, Thomas glanced away and sat on a nearby log where the dogs were playing. Blaze was the most affectionate one of the two: as soon as Thomas sat, he trotted closer to him, begging for some petting.

"Good boy," Thomas told him, out of habit, as he stroked his head.

His heart gave a pang when he remembered Neptune. He loved that dog so dearly. In the life he would have preferred, Frank would have got a new dog, and they would have lived, the three of them, in a small cottage somewhere north - with no Fitzjames to disrupt their little peace. Blaze whimpered inquisitively, sensing his changing mood. Thomas shook his head.

"How do you do it?" he asked, unable to stop himself. He glanced up at Le Vesconte, full of resentment. "How can you stand there and not care that they are together just now?"

Le Vesconte stopped drying his greying hair, his gaze full of surprise. In two strides, and before Thomas could protest, he walked over to the log and sat next to him.

"Well," he said. "It isn't the first time this has happened. You could say I have resigned myself to it."

"Resigned," Thomas repeated with contempt.

"Yes. Some years ago, I realised I could either share him or lose him altogether. I chose the first."

"There should be no sharing," Thomas argued with some heat in his voice. "It is odious and depraved."

"In a scale of depravity, surely? Most would consider all our entanglements an abomination to begin with."

Thomas had nothing to argue against this. He stroked Blaze's head, alarmingly close to feeling heartbroken.

"I am always thoughtful," he said, remembering Le Vesconte's previous question. "But it was not enough to keep him."

"My dear fellow," Le Vesconte said after a long pause, and Thomas startled when he placed a hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Have you told him? Have you told Crozier that you feel so mistreated?"

"Not mistreated," he corrected, offended on Frank's behalf.

"A little disregarded, then." He patted his shoulder and added, full of mischief, "Enough to accept some comfort from me."

Thomas shook off the hand on his shoulder and stood. "Keep your comfort," he said, as haughtily as he could manage. "This is all because of you."

He began walking away towards Morgan, but Le Vesconte followed him.

"Look, I do regret not having spoken to you first," he offered. He sounded genuinely contrite. "James and I are peculiar in our own way, and I did not think you would be so affected. Trust me that this unpleasantness will not last long."

"You keep saying that," Thomas bit back. "I don't know whether you believe it at all."

Morgan was within earshot, but it hardly mattered: Le Vesconte stopped in his tracks with a stunned expression on his face, and argued no longer.

* * *

"Hngh, this is exquisite," Fitzjames said, with an exaggerated tilt of his head, as he set his cutlery down.

"Maud does wonders in the kitchen, as always," Le Vesconte said. "I will be sure to tell her you are pleased."

Thomas finished cutting his meat in silence. Maud was the cook, a stout woman that seemed unfriendly at first glance, but she was accommodating enough to his instructions when it came to the Captain's meals. It had taken him a week or two to understand how it was that Le Vesconte worried little about gossip: all of his servants were, in one way or the other, in a particular entanglement with each other. Carrick and the groom, Maud and the housemaid, the gardener and the footman. Le Vesconte must have hired them for this particular reason. Thomas had never realised there were so many others like them.

"Pleasant! I'll say. I must have warned you," Fitzjames said, turning towards Francis, "staying with Henry is a sure way to gain some weight. He only hires the finest cooks, and he has a good eye for hunting the best game of the land."

"Hm," Francis said, not overly interested in this topic as he twirled his glass of whiskey.

Thomas had come to dread these tedious weekly dinners where Fitzjames and Le Vesconte were the only ones talking, oblivious that their efforts to play the cheerful hosts fell flat - and he dreaded them the most because Francis thought them a good excuse to drink.

"I'm afraid your compliment, while very sweet, is undeserved this time," Le Vesconte said. "Everything we eat at this table is Jopson's doing."

"Is it really!" Fitzjames exclaimed.

All eyes turned on him. Thomas offered a half-smile, not enjoying the attention.

"He's become quite the country gentleman, I hear," Frank said, and Thomas knew from the gentle tone and the half-raised eyebrow that he was trying to put him at ease.

"He has!" Le Vesconte said. "We've been riding together daily. Minnie and the dogs adore him. He is a fantastic shot as well."

"Hm," Fitzjames said, silenced for once. He sipped his wine, still looking at Thomas. "Cheers to that," he added, somewhat blandly.

How he was staring! It seemed to be the first time he noticed Thomas there, and the disconcerted edge in his eyes made it seem he did not know what to make of him. They had spoken little until then. Thomas held his gaze with some bemusement. Fitzjames glanced away abruptly and changed the subject with eager swiftness.

"Well, yes, in any case," he said, "these sumptuous dinners of yours will weigh on me in no time at this rate. We must have some physical activity as well, are there no dances in the parish?"

"The Howkins are hosting a ball this coming Thursday. I received the invitation just yesterday. I did not think you would be interested," Le Vesconte said.

"Absolutely not," Captain Crozier said hastily, quelling Fitzjames's enthusiasm before it had a chance to burst.

"Oh," Fitzjames said in confusion. "I, I could be persuaded?"

"Country dances are insufferable," Francis went on. "And all the young girls of the parish will be looking for husbands."

"Yes, but there will also be _dancing."_

He glanced at Le Vesconte for help, but only got a bland smile in return. Thomas wondered if this was part of his design to drive those two apart. It did not take a brilliant man to guess Frank would not be one for such entertainment, and that Fitzjames would. The conversation seemed ready to die out, but Le Vesconte turned towards Thomas with an impish grin.

"What about you, Jopson? Would you go? Do you dance?"

Thomas could not mask his shock on time, but he did manage to sound calm when he answered, "I do not."

"You do not dance! Why, we must remedy that. Do not fret: I will teach you."

"That would be a waste of time," Thomas said. "I have no intention to dance with women, particularly if they are looking to marry."

"Perhaps Jopson would rather dance with men," Fitzjames told Le Vesconte, in a dry, unfriendly tone. "You would do a far better job at that than pretending to be a lady if you are to teach him."

"I can play the lady just fine, if that is what Jopson would prefer," Le Vesconte said, and laughed. No one joined him in his mirth.

"Enough of this nonsense," Francis said, setting his whiskey down. "Cease teasing Thomas."

"I do apologise," Le Vesconte said, but he did not sound sorry in the least. "I might just write back and say I will go on my own. Now, shall we retire to the sitting room?"

This part of the evening was even more tedious than the dinner. The intention, Thomas supposed, was to show that they were all gentlemen, perfectly capable of amiable society and above any and all jealousy, but most of the time Fitzjames and Le Vesconte played cards by themselves, Francis drank, and Thomas bemoaned his lack of worldly pastimes. He did, however, have a rare talent, long practised at sea, for sitting or standing in perfect silence and making himself scarce so all in all he did not find the ordeal overly taxing. What did worry him, however, was that Frank had taken to drinking again. Thank the heavens, nowhere near the excesses of the past, yet Thomas remained vigilant, dreading a relapse. But he had to admit that save for these insufferable evenings, the Captain was happy, happier than he'd seen him in years - and it ached.

That evening, however, Le Vesconte sat at the piano. Thomas had no schooling in music, but it sounded pleasant enough, though he could tell Le Vesconte was not particularly skilled. He seemed to be playing cheerful airs, fit for a dance indeed, as if tying them to their earlier conversation. Fitzjames, without a partner for cards, began reading a book, but he was not flipping the pages at all, and he seemed to grow increasingly moody as Le Vesconte kept playing. Francis only endured a half-hour of this charade and announced that he would retire early.

"I will join you, to help you," Thomas offered, on his feet at once, and he paid no mind to Frank's protest. Neither did the others, for that matter.

"These evenings are intolerable," the Captain said as they climbed up the stairs. "I don't know why I put up with this."

"I suppose we ought to show gratitude to Le Vesconte for his hospitality," Thomas said, letting some careful sarcasm into his tone.

"Gratitude!" Francis scoffed. "I half-regret having entered this odious scheme."

Thomas touched his arm just as they were about to enter the bed-room. "It isn't too late," he said, irrationally full of hope. "Frank. We could just leave."

For the briefest of moments, he thought Francis might say yes. But the Captain averted his gaze, mumbled something under his breath, and went inside the room. Thomas followed him with a heavy heart, and helped him out of his dinner jacket.

"Hm," Francis said. "I seem to have lost a cufflink. Likely at dinner, I remember it was bothering me."

"You must have fussed at it," Thomas scolded. "I could have fixed that for you. But no matter: I will go find it. I shan't be long: I don't believe Molly will sweep the room until the morning. Would you like some fresh water to be sent up?"

"Yes, please," Francis said, and squeezed his hand. "What would I do without you?"

 _Bed Fitzjames to your heart's content, I reckon_ , Thomas thought, and the bitterness of the voice in his head surprised him. He saw to that the Captain was comfortably undressed and went back downstairs to search for the missing cufflink. On the way to the dining table, however, he had to walk by the sitting room, and the raised voices there gave him pause. Stealthily, as was his custom, he approached the door that was just ajar and listened in.

"...it a problem that I go by myself?" Le Vesconte was asking.

"Because you are doing it to annoy me, knowing I cannot go."

"Good grief, James! Did it occur to you that perhaps I _do_ want to go? Besides, why can you not go? What is stopping you? Your deference to Crozier? There is absolutely nothing stopping you from going and you know this, and this is why you are arguing with me."

"You are absurd," Fitzjames said. "And you trying to sabotage everything was certainly not part of our arrangement."

"I am not sabotaging anything! If anyone is, it's you. Why have you not joined him upstairs just now? Are you not worried Jopson is there with him?"

"I've had enough of Jopson for tonight!" Fitzjames exclaimed. "Why are you so taken in with the man all of a sudden? If you do go with him, I will... I will..."

"You will what?"

"I will not forgive you!" Fitzjames said and, Thomas guessed, began a dramatic retreat - which gave him just enough time to scamper off to the dining room.

The cufflink was, predictably, just under the chair where the Captain had sat. Thomas turned it between his fingers without truly seeing it. He should not have eavesdropped. And yet he did not regret it. So Fitzjames had enough of Jopson! Well, Thomas had enough of him as well. He had barely been a nuisance, he had gone out of his way to stay out of sight and give them their precious time together - against his will, against his heart. Seized with a flippant need for _sabotage,_ as Fitzjames called it, he made his way back to the sitting room instead of going back upstairs.

Le Vesconte was by the piano, though he was standing now, fingering the keys with nervous idleness. He still looked agitated: red-faced, hair in disarray. He glanced up when he heard Thomas step inside, and he raised one eyebrow.

"I thought you were upstairs," he said. "Don't tell me he threw you out of Crozier's room?"

"No," Thomas said. "Would he?"

"He would not. Not bodily at least, but he might make you feel like an unwanted third until you feel compelled to leave. What is the matter, then? Why are you down here?"

Thomas pursed his lips, then attempted a smile. "You said you would teach me how to dance."

Le Vesconte chuckled. "Did you not say you were not interested?"

"I am now," Thomas said, and took a few stubborn steps forward.

Le Vesconte cheered up visibly: he smirked as he walked over to meet him with all the aplomb he had lost in the discussion with Fitzjames. The cockiness Thomas had hated earlier was somehow not out of place, not with his gaze full of intent.

"Then I will teach you," he said, and spread his arms as if to embrace Thomas. "You will want to know how to lead, I suppose?"

"I'd rather have you lead," Thomas said, and he felt his cheeks burning when Le Vesconte's smirk widened.

"As you wish," he said, and he slid a resolute arm around Thomas's waist.

Le Vesconte stepped even closer and clasped their hands together. The warmth of his body pressed against his in a way that would be scandalous in any respectable ball. Thomas, for all that he tried to appear level-head, could not help grinning, and arched against him.

"This is not unlike riding," Le Vesconte said, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "I too am a living thing, and you will learn to guess my moves and my mood. Count in your head: one-two-three, one-two-three."

They were standing so close together that it was indeed easy to follow Le Vesconte's moves. The way he held Thomas was gentle and firm at the same time, and he forced him around to move with a briskness that felt somewhat shocking. He had not been handled like this in a long time, far too long. Thomas let out a nervous chuckle: Le Vesconte was younger, more frisky - coltish, even - than what he was used to with Frank. It was not at all unpleasant to find himself the recipient of his exuberant attentions: how he held him, how he stroked him just above the small of his back, how he smiled, luring him closer.

"What do you say, Jopson?" he whispered into his ear, abominably close. "Would you like to raise some hell and go to that ball together?"

Oh, they could raise some hell all right. They could raise it just then - Thomas just had to tilt his head and they would kiss, for God's sake. Perhaps they were taking this a bit too far. Thomas still disliked the man. Didn't he? But oh, how he wanted to vex Fitzjames, to make him worry, to have him regret slipping into Frank's bed. He flashed Le Vesconte a smile, a genuine one this time.

"I would love to," he told him, and no sooner had he said this that Le Vesconte was the one to tilt his head, and crushed their lips in a kiss.

Thomas gasped, tried to step away, but he was being held too firmly. He did not resist, then, and found himself kissing him back with abandon, pouring all of his frustration and jealousy and misplaced passion into the kiss. This was completely unlike the gentle smooches Francis still gave him on rare occasions; it was messy and angry and ugly, and yet Thomas held on to Le Vesconte, not wanting to stop, not wanting it to end. When they pulled away at last, Le Vesconte had a breathless, bewildered expression in his gaze - not unlike his own, Thomas guessed.

"Stay," he asked, hoarsely, still holding him in an embrace. There was an irresistible thrill in knowing it was treacherous of them to be doing this, enough to make a man lose his head. Yet reason prevailed, somehow.

"I'd better go back upstairs," Thomas said, though his voice sounded shaky.

"You may go upstairs," Le Vesconte said, "but that was a damned good kiss and you know it."

"I know it," Thomas said, and fled.

* * *

Once his hot-headed jealousy cooled off somewhat, Thomas regretted having agreed. Francis had only said a surprised 'hmm' but raised no objections. If Fitzjames raged at Le Vesconte, he did not hear about it. But he fully expected to have a miserable time at the dance, where he would be forced into entertaining young women. Or worse, into watching Le Vesconte do it while Thomas stood aside from the revellers.

But no sooner did they arrive at the ball that Le Vesconte ushered him into a quieter room - after earning a few appreciative looks from the ladies that troubled Thomas to no end. But in the reading room of the manor, a handful of men were smoking cigars and playing cards quietly. Such a peaceful place stood like a safe heaven so close to the music and the chattering of the ballroom, and Thomas let out a sigh of relief.

"Harry, old fellow!" a young man called and waved at them from an armchair. "Why, we were despairing of your presence!"

"I am sorry," Le Vesconte said, and pulled some chairs closer to join him. "I'm afraid I forgot to have some fun of late. Jopson, this is Doctor Richard Lennox, who went to school with my brother Philip. Richard, this is Lieutenant Thomas Jopson, who sailed to the Arctic with me."

Thomas shook hands with the doctor, touched that Le Vesconte upheld his promotion in public. Dr Lennox seemed close to his age, though his tired eyes belied his youth. No wonder he did not dance.

"Pleased to meet you," Dr Lennox said. "I must say I am exceedingly grateful that you returned at all. You were on the same ship, I suppose?"

"No," Le Vesconte said. "He was in the other one. But Jopson here is a veteran of polar expeditions: before our own journey, he had already sailed to Antarctica."

"Is that so! How fascinating. Are they much alike, to your reckoning?"

For a moment Thomas did not know what to answer, unused to being included in casual conversation in a group of gentlemen. But Dr Lennox had a kind face, with a frankness that somewhat reminded him of Goodsir, and he seemed genuinely interested in hearing what he had to say. Le Vesconte too was watching him, and he smiled at him in encouragement.

"Yes and no," Thomas said, a little flustered. "The landscape, the cold, evidently so, but it all seemed much more alive in the South. I do not know whether it was because of the men or the Captains. But there was far more excitement, day after day."

"I suppose being successful in that one largely shaped your perception," Le Vesconte said.

"Perhaps so," Thomas conceded. "But it was a fine expedition. And the creatures were plentiful and friendly."

"What kind of creatures?"

"Penguins," Thomas said. "Small, grey baby penguins. They were quite lovely."

Le Vesconte made a sound that made it clear he would have loved to see one. Thomas recalled having fun with them when they ventured on deck. But that trip South was when he had fallen in love with Francis. Most of his memories were of him, of the inside of the cabin. He could not say that out loud. It was sad, come to think of it.

"We had a naturalist with us," he told Dr Lennox, desperate to silence his own thoughts. "A Mr Hooker, who was mostly interested in plants. I helped him collect some specimens in the Falklands."

"You must write your memoirs," Dr Lennox said. "You've been to both ends of the Earth! Not many men can claim to have done so."

"Ah," Thomas said, embarrassed. "I am not much of a writer."

"With some of the drivel printed these days, I hardly think anyone would complain," Le Vesconte teased. "But I am sure Jopson would manage to write just fine. He is a quiet fellow, but he observes it all quite keenly."

"Of course!" Dr Lennox said. "I've got a title for you. _A Tale of Two Poles._ Eh? Or, hm, _North and South._ What do you say?"

"Thank you, doctor, I will think of this," Thomas managed, still uneasy to be thought of as interesting when he had scarcely done more than changing linen. Would Dr Lennox hold him in such high regard if he knew he was bedding his Captain for most of those expeditions? Looking after him, seeing to his every need, and savouring every rare occasion to have his body used by him as the greatest reward?

He stared down. He did not like that younger self, not when he put it like that. Heavens, he had loved Francis so desperately, allowing him to become the only reference in his passions like a steadfast compass pointing only in one direction. But what good was devotion, when it was taken for granted and, later, dismissed? He glanced at Le Vesconte, unspeakably pained.

"Don't you worry, Jopson," Le Vesconte said, and patted his thigh lightly. "You do not have to write if you do not wish to. But I am sure you will find that life is worthwhile after having lived through so much, and that you will succeed in whatever new venture you set your heart onto."

Thomas said nothing, taken aback with his earnestness. Dr Lennox too had kindness in his gaze.

"Quite so, quite so," he said. "There is much to do on land, as you soon will find."

"How is your practice going?" Le Vesconte asked, changing the subject.

The two men then conversed on their own, referring to common acquaintances in the neighbourhood. Thomas used the diversion to blink his confusion away. A new venture? The thought had not crossed his mind. The Captain would not sail again, he feared, but did that mean Thomas could not? If the Admiralty upheld his promotion, he could embark on a voyage of his own, wear himself to sleep, see the world, sail free. And even if the Admiralty refused him, well, he could embark again in another position. The longing for the sea, that he had long mistaken for love, struck him full force like a slap to the face. Francis had not quite left him but, little by little, it occurred to him that he could leave him himself.

"I must leave you momentarily," Le Vesconte said, rising. "I should have a dance or two, or I will never hear the end of it in the parish."

"What a hardship on you!" Dr Lennox said with a laugh. "One who despises dancing and handsome ladies!"

"Hush now," Le Vesconte said, and turned to Jopson. "Will you be all right?"

"Yes," Jopson said. "Thank you."

He smiled at Dr Lennox. His guess on his nature was not mistaken: he was a man eager for conversation, who required little from his dialogue partners without being obnoxious. So he settled for some distracted listening, while he turned Lennox's earlier tease in his mind. So Le Vesconte had a reputation for dancing and handsome ladies? Perhaps this was what had enraged Fitzjames so at the thought of him going by himself. Thomas bit back a smile.

But Le Vesconte alternated his dancing with the quieter periods in the reading room, where two gentle-mannered men joined Dr Lennox. Every time he returned, he brought a glass of water, or of champagne, for Thomas.

"Thank you," he told him the first time, a little bemused at being waited on.

"Oh, think nothing of it," Le Vesconte said.

He sat next to him, and Thomas could feel the heat of his exertions rolling off from him, and he felt troubled.

* * *

The ride back home began in a chaotic way, as they had to drive a Miss Colbert and her cousin, who were friends of Le Vesconte's sister Anne, or of Charlotte, he could not remember which one. As he sat in the carriage watching them talk, Thomas could not help wondering at the size of Le Vesconte's family. He was constantly adding brothers and sisters to his conversation, and sometimes it seemed even he could not keep their names straight. They had all moved to Canada with their parents, Thomas gathered, but at this rate he would not be surprised if half a dozen more happened to still live in England. It was quite late by the time they finally made their way back to the cottage, at last alone, and Le Vesconte sighed, stifling a yawn.

"Well, Jopson, how was it? Did you enjoy your ball?"

"Yes," he said. "More than I expected. I did not dance at all."

Le Vesconte let out a short laugh. "A pity! Many a young girl set their eyes on you, I'm told."

"Ah. No, I'm afraid that would not have been a good idea," Thomas said. "The reading room was far more pleasant."

"I'll say! Lennox was quite taken with you. He's one of us, you know."

One of _us._ Thomas blinked. He had not noticed at all. Did Le Vesconte have an eye for this, for men like them? Did he go around the parish collecting inverts to add them to his acquaintances, like he did to his servants?

"Oh," Thomas said, and frowned. Then Dr Lennox's kindness...? Had he given him the wrong impression? "I did not mean anything by that," he added.

"Hm," Le Vesconte said. "I thought you noticed. Never mind him, then. He is a good fellow after all, if a little timid."

"It isn't him I want."

Good gracious, had he said that out loud? Thomas bit his bottom lip in alarm. All that champagne must have got to his head. Le Vesconte, however, seemed nonplussed.

"Bah," he said, and shrugged. "Of course you don't. You'll be wanting your old man, after all this excitement."

He should stay quiet, he really should. Yet Thomas could not stop himself from saying, "Not only him."

Le Vesconte's eyes widened, and the same wolfish, hungry expression he usually reserved for food flashed across his gaze.

"Well, well," he said, cocking his head. "Is that so?"

Thomas thought of sabotage again, and smiled. "Seems to me we haven't raised much hell together at all."

"I do agree," Le Vesconte said, and moved across the carriage to sit next to him.

He was expedient in his courtship: his hands found the lapels of Thomas's coat and he drew him closer, irresistible in his eagerness. This kiss was sloppier than the first, likely on account of the champagne and the rocking of the carriage, but no less fiery. An undercurrent of bitterness seemed to fuel this need to forget, to make mischief, to brush revenge with the tip of their fingers - and yet it felt novel and entrancing and exhilarating in ways Thomas had entirely forgotten were possible. He pulled back to let out a nervous laugh, and Le Vesconte stroked his cheek and played with a stray lock of his hair, and if he'd ever wondered why on Earth he would ever want this, all Thomas could think then was _why not._

Le Vesconte put his head out the carriage window, his hand still on Thomas's thigh. "Don't stop by the house, Perry," he told the driver. "Drive straight to the stables."

"The stables?" Thomas repeated in disbelief.

"Would you rather have _Them_ hear what I will do to you?" Le Vesconte asked with a smirk.

"Maybe I do," Thomas said, and laughed. "Is that reckless of me?"

"Perhaps a little, but I cannot say I fault you."

The house stood in perfect darkness as they drove by the front entrance. Morgan was waiting in the stable to tend to the horses, and he seemed surprised to see them stepping down from the carriage there. Thomas felt his face flush, but Le Vesconte hardly spared a glance in the groom's direction, and gestured towards the barn. This building was connected to the stables, and in it they stored the hay for the horses along with harvesting tools. Lying on the fresh hay turned out to be a far coarser experience than Thomas imagined, with the dried grass prickling the skin all over, but the smell was earthly and pleasant, and it felt somehow cozier than a bed. Le Vesconte rolled on top of him, pinning him down, stroking him all over, kissing his neck, his jaw, just under his ear.

"You may still refuse, you know," he said, his mouth hot and wet against him.

"Why would I?" Thomas said, and he bucked his hips upwards for more contact.

"Second thoughts? Guilt? Lingering disgust for me?"

"Not a chance," he said, and cupped him through his trousers with wicked intent. The rush of pleasure when he heard him gasp made Thomas bolder, and he added, "I've had enough of your lessons. _I_ am the living thing between your legs now, and I hope you do ride well."

* * *

* * *

"I just cannot believe you are leaving!" Fitzjames wailed, yes, wailed as he stood on the front steps of the house watching Henry load trunks into the carriage.

"Come now, old boy," Henry said, very gently. "This was always a possibility."

"Not at all! Never. It never was. We were meant to stay together! Go on adventures together! Explore the world together!"

"I don't see you taken in with that idea just now, all cozened up and tucked in by midnight. Look, you get Crozier all to yourself. Isn't that what you were moaning about since we returned?"

"But not without you!" Fitzjames protested. "This is too high a price. You are doing this to vex me!"

"Perhaps at first," Henry said. "But I do genuinely have come to enjoy Jopson's company."

"Jopson!" Fitzjames glared daggers towards the carriage. Thomas waved at him with a deceptively cheerful smile. "Why, that little... that little…"

"Careful now," Henry said, his tone sharp. "Or we will quarrel."

"Let us quarrel, then! You are abandoning me."

"I am leaving you in good hands, I do believe. You and I have gone as far as we could go: I tried my damned hardest to make you happy, but..."

"You did! You did, Harry!" he cried, interrupting him.

"...but did _you_ try to make me happy?" he asked, and Fitzjames did not answer. "Listen, my dear, enough is enough. Let Carrick know when you wish to leave - before the end of spring, I should hope. This is, after all, my own estate."

"But you can't leave. You cannot leave!"

Bored with this circular conversation, Thomas glanced up towards the upper windows of the house. He could see Francis at the window, watching Henry and Fitzjames argue. Thomas felt a pang of regret as he recalled their goodbyes. It had come as a complete surprise to him, and Thomas knew him well enough to notice how much it pained him, but in the end he had argued very little. Francis was too proud. It stung, nevertheless, that he had not attempted to change his mind, compared to Fitzjames's melodramatic antics to keep Henry. Dejected acceptance or overbearing refusal, he did not know which one would burden him the most. Thomas would miss him, very much so, and yet he felt lighthearted, vibrating with impatience like a ship that has been anchored for too long.

"Well," Henry said at long last as he climbed in the carriage and shut the door behind himself. The two dogs barked excitedly, and though Chester went to lick his hands, Blaze stayed on Thomas's lap. "That's all done now. I apologise for the delay, he took it as badly as I expected."

"I don't mind," Thomas said.

"All right, then. Now. Where to, Tom?" he asked with a wink.

"Does it matter?"

Henry chuckled, and Thomas joined him. "I suppose not," he said. "To London, then. And see about sailing as soon as possible. Would you like that?"

"I would love it," Thomas said, and smiled.

* * *


End file.
